


The Seven Gates

by Laerthel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gondolin, Himring, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Union of Maedhros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 128,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7078486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laerthel/pseuds/Laerthel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long and weary road from the birth of the Union of Maedhros to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the downfall of the Sons of Feanor and the construction of the last Great Gate in Gondolin. Features also: Turgon, Idril, Fingon, Gwindor, Celebrimbor, Erestor, Ecthelion, Noldor, Sindar, Men, Dwarves, OC-s, Eagles, Easterlings & many others. CANONICAL GAPFILLER; FULL SUMMARY INSIDE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: An Ode To The Fallen

**_Full summary [minor spoilers]_ **

_First Age, 467. The incredible story of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel spreads to every corner of Beleriand, but the only detail of their heroic adventures Maedhros, Lord of Himring and Warden of the East cares about is that they managed to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown. He decides to reunite the People of Beleriand against the Enemy and attack him while he is still unprepared. To win, Maedhros would need not only the support of the High King Fingon and the lords of Men and Dwarves but also the aid of Thingol and Orodreth, the rulers of Doriath and Nargothrond; thus, he seeks to bend them to his cause, trying to master the pride of his brothers and the distrust of the Úmanyar at the same time. He and his faithful counsellor Tyelcano work hard to maintain order in the East – fruitlessly, it would seem. But the deeds of Beren and Lúthien are not only known to the Fëanoreans; nor are they the only ones to cherish vengefulness in their hearts._

_News of the freshly formed alliance reach even the sealed kingdom of Gondolin; the swiftly rising hope and the desire to overthrow Morgoth’s reign in the North seem to crack the rigid traditions of law and decision-making in the Hidden City. King Turgon decides to take matters into his own hands, and a small group of his captains and trusted advisors are forced to battle their own convictions to serve their King. Meanwhile, Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower pursues the meaning of his recurring nightmares, only to find himself in the centre of a secret ploy against the ever-growing power of Maeglin Lómion in the King’s Council._

_The People of Beleriand are astir; and as the strings of our heroes’ fates tangle, a dark shadow creeps above the North – the Fifth Battle approaches. And to what end, no one could dream..._

* * *

 

**_Warnings_ **

This story is rated **T** due to implied adult themes, minor coarse language, and graphic descriptions of violence.

‘The Seven Gates’ has been / is being written as an attempt in canonical gap-filling, with two liberties taken: #1 the role of Counsellor Tyelcano and #2 the existence of Curufin’s daughter, Erenis. Anything else in this story is my take or speculation on the canon – explications of minor divergences and/or choices of interpretation can be found in the footnotes of adequate chapters, as do linguistic notes.

All songs, lays or poems within the narrative frame are a) my own creations or b) credited in the footnotes.

* * *

**_Disclaimer_   
**

_The characters, names and places from J. R. R. Tolkien's works have been used without the successor's official permission, and fall solely under the copyright of the Tolkien Estate. Publishing fanfiction doesn't bring me any financial gain._

_However, all original characters appearing in the work below belong under my general copyright._

* * *

 

**FOREWORD**

_“In those days Maedhros son of Fëanor lifted up his heart, perceiving that Morgoth was not unassailable; for the deeds of Beren and Lúthien were sung in many songs throughout Beleriand. Yet Morgoth would destroy them all, one by one, if they could not again unite, and make new league and common council; and he began those counsels for the raising of the fortunes of the Eldar that are called the Union of Maedhros.”_

(J. R. R. Tolkien - The Silmarillion ; XX. Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad)

 

Every time I read the twentieth chapter of _The Silmarillion,_ it leaves me with more questions than perhaps all the others united. The Sons of Fëanor have already captured my heart by the time I got there in the book (despite themselves), and most of the questions I've raised began with “How”, “Why”, “When” and “What for”. What did Maedhros say when the news of the stolen Silmaril first reached him? How did he feel about the deeds of Celegorm and Curufin? Who came up with the idea of the Union in the first place? What steps led to the expulsion of Orcs from Beleriand, and what role did the Dwarves have in it all? Did something change in Fingon's and Maedhros's relationship with the former becoming High King? And what about those Easterlings? Were they evil to the core, or were they just deeply misled?

And what _exactly_ led Celebrimbor to disowning his father?

_And how the hell did Turgon arrive just in time…?!_

Knowing that scepsis and inscience leads to deep frustration, I decided to try and answer my own questions. I hope many of you will like this little tale, and consider it as a possible take on what on Arda could have happened.

Have a great read,

Laerthel

* * *

 

**PROLOGUE**

**_An Ode to the Fallen  
_ ** _(as sung in the Hall of Fire by those who still remember)_

Torches burnt low and darkness grew  
in starlight's gleam hope stirred anew  
in weary hearts of iron hewn  
on brows clouded by icy gloom.

Proud kings fled and proud realms failed  
our lands devoured by fire;  
bury the dead and clean the mead  
were all my heart's desire;

But lo! New threat comes from the North  
along with hope, though be it false!  
New hordes of Orcs are stepping forth  
let thus a tale of woes be told;

Of he who walks in starlight,  
who drapes himself in clouds  
He who hides in caves and breaches,  
icy peaks that Darkness shrouds;

Of he who climbed those Mountains  
where all paths find their ends;  
of he who found pride, worth and might  
where plague, danger and evil dwelt:

Of he who was not without fear  
but strong enough he was;  
of he whose fate, though hard to bear,  
was still the one he chose;

And all those swords and all that light  
and all those clear eyes burning bright;  
O! Let me sing of silent nights,  
of mighty deeds and twinkling stars;

Our Bane with valor in the midst  
with life in death's embrace  
as proud armies rode in the mist  
with the worst of foes to face;

Our Alliance, our deepest sorrow  
let our Great Tale begin!  
Let the light of day stir by the morrow  
while crows feast on our kin.


	2. A Scandalous Nonsense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the tale. Please care to leave a review if you liked it (or not!) :)

**THE SEVEN GATES**

 

_"Hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it."_

**Romans 8:24**

 

**I. A Scandalous Nonsense**

 

_**The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, late Súlimë** _

 

Counsellor Tyelcano was fingering his chalice nervously, and the foldings of his soft silk nightrobe swerved at every start of his muscles. In front of him lay a new report from the homecoming scouts: no more than a stained piece of parchment, that had been handed straight to him due to its most urgent nature. His Lord Maedhros had already retired to his chambers for the night; unwilling to disturb, the Counsellor granted himself the time to settle behind his desk with a cup of fine red wine, and to read the report alone, working his way considerately through the text.

Or so he'd thought.

The report seemed surprisingly sparing of words – laconic, one could say -, confined to three brief sentences.

 _Lords Tyelkormo and Curufinw_ _ë_ _banned from Nargothrond. One of the Silmarili stolen, and in the hands of Thingol. Moringotto sleeps no more_.

Tyelcano took a fair sip of wine and read the text anew, but the words stayed all the same, assertive, merciless. His eyes stopped several times above the words _"banned"_ , _"Silmarili"_ and _"stolen",_ a feeling of great unease surging inside him.

First of all, _this was a fake report._ The Counsellor did not recognize the handwriting, and any scout of the Himring would have known better than to state things of such gravity without any proof or details. If Tyelcano twisted his mind, the thick, abundant outlines of the tengwar reminded him of something _– someone? -_ but his thoughts lost their track when he tried to match them with a face. No: this was no doing of the scouts, nor anyone else within the grim walls of the fortress.

Tyelcano examined the seal he'd carelessly broke into half and put the pieces back together, only to find... _nothing suspicious._ The seal was of origin, not by any means different than any other in the huge pile of documents that lay next to him on the desk.

 _It must have been replaced,_ Tyelcano decided. _Someone took the original report, and exchanged it with this chaotic mess of lies. Then sealed it, possibly very pleased with themselves._

_But how? And, what is even more important: why? Who could have in themselves the courage – and the madness -, to steal a secret document right from Lord Maedhros's scouts, only to replace it with utter nonsense that no one would ever be likely to believe?_

It seemed all pointless and hazy; and even if Counsellor Tyelcano hated unanswered questions with passion, he deemed the whole matter much less pressing than to somehow retrieve the real report. Or have it rewritten, if necessary.

 _Whoever stole the original one, good luck to them with deciphering all the codes,_ the Counsellor smirked to himself.

Lord Maedhros had always been quite categoric when it came to using secret keywords where none were suspected. A classic report of a Himring scout actually looked like one to the eyes of an outsider, too; only those responsible for the defense of Himlad were familiar with the complex set of codes within, where certain letters meant numbers, certain numbers meant locations, certain numbers of words in a sentence meant specific messages, and so on. A sentence could read _"Remnants of an Orc camp found two and a half miles north from river Celon, third bend"_ , and actually mean _"Lord Ma_ _glor_ _is to pay a visit with a dozen riders in a fortnight"_.

Tyelcano suppressed a sigh, and read the short text anew. He could not get rid of the strange sensation that he was overlooking something evident. Something that was about to pass right under his nose. There was _something_ about this message that upset him.

"Moringotto sleeps no more," he muttered under his breath.

Not that it was a surprise.

It happened only four winters ago that the Enemy last assailed the Kingdom of Hithlum in the North, sudden, unannounced; so swiftly that the worst of the fight was over by the time Lord Maedhros gathered his army to offer help. Since then, utter stillness reigned in Beleriand, interrupted only once in a while by bands of Orcs lingering in the woods and moorlands. Some were whispering that the Enemy had gone to sleep, some others – and Counsellor Tyelcano was one of them - were convinced he was merely biding his time.

 _One of the Silmarili stolen, and in the hands of Thingol,_ Tyelcano proceeded to read again, the elegant line of his brows descending into a slight frown. Only once in his waking life had he been granted with the opportunity to meet the King of the Úmanyar; and Thingol did not seem one who would risk a desperate quest to Angamando. And how could he ever dream to claim a Silmaril for himself? Why him?

 _Why one of the Moriquendi?_ \- Tyelcano thought with scorn, but quieted his thoughts immediately. This was not the proper moment to let his own feeling run high. After all, what was he reading? A ragged bunch of nonsense. A Silmaril stolen, in the hands of Thingol? The idea was hideous, even for the most vapid kind of jest.

 _Angamando is impenetrable,_ the Counsellor stated to himself. _The Silmarili cannot be reclaimed, unless – unless -, we ever happen to make Moringotto come forth and face us._

_And Manwë help us all if he ever does that._

Manwë has been the lone and constant recipient of Tyelcano's prayers since his lord's rescue, and even now as he uttered his name, his _f_ _ë_ _a_ felt a little lighter, the parchment unwrinkling beneath his eager hands. Tyelcano read the text again, now aloud, setting a new, steady rhythm as he uttered the words. A moment later, his eyes went wide.

There actually _was_ a code hidden within this message. It read no more than a name, swiftly and overwhelmingly recognized by Tyelcano as the handwriting's owner.

Which meant – _Valar, could it mean that those news were actually true?!_

 

O = * = O

 

Tyelcano had to wake Lord Maedhros at once; he'd been already wasting enough time staring, slipping wine and hoping that the message carved decisively into the parchment could by any means change. He got to his feet, wrapped a thick black cloak around his most inappropriate attire and rushed out of the room, clutching the precious report.

It was the third hour of the day, and lights were burning low along the corridor that led him to the Northern Tower where his lord's chambers were located. The march seemed painfully long, and he had to grab a torch to light his way through the narrow stone bridge that linked two delicate archways below the open air. It had been built for watchmen, to cut down their way at night, but Counsellor Tyelcano knew all roundabouts and secret corners in the Fortress of Himring, and disposed of a great routine to use them for his own good.

When he was standing in front of his lord's door at last, he unfolded the parchment with his free hand and ran through it one last time, slowly, reluctantly. It still read the same; he had no choice but to move on.

How thin, how delicate was the veil that separated peace from war, quietude from distress...! For a passing moment, Tyelcano would have preferred to set the parchment on fire, to burn it to ashes, to pretend it had never existed. It would have perhaps gained him a peaceful day, or another. Even a week, with a little luck... but one could not shut out the perils of the world, one could not change the patterns in Vairë's weaves.

 _We shall not know peace until Moringotto's realm is overthrown,_ Tyelcano thought as he entered the room. _We shall not know peace until the Oath is fulfilled. I have known this. Why should it surprise me every time as a novelty?_

 _If, and only IF the message is by any means true,_ the remnants of his hope insisted. The whole business seemed utterly, ridiculously impossible.

A light of a forgotten candle flickered merrily as he took three silent steps inside his lord's bedchamber. Tyelcano slipped his torch into a free holder on the side of the wall and approached the bed, but saw almost immediately that it was empty, the cushions at their place, the sheets clean and untouched. As his gaze wandered further, he finally glimpsed his lord in a wide armchair behind his desk, quill in hand, overlain the tabletop as he slept peacefully, his breathing deep and steady. Several piles of messy notes were lying around him as if he'd been searching for something amongst them. Tyelcano sneaked to the edge of the table, restraining himself from looking at his lord's messy handwriting. It would have been unwise to misimprove his trust by reading his private notes.

Maedhros did not wake as soon as he closed up, though that was what the Counsellor had expected. Not even the steadiness of his breath changed. Tyelcano could not help but watched him for a few moments: his broad shoulders, the delicate white line of his neck, the tangled sea of dark auburn hair, unbraided, that fell loose on a pile of parchments and hid the face Tyelcano loved so dearly. Seldom had he ever seen his lord resting so peacefully since his rescue, and it pained him to disturb him in his sleep.

"Lord Nelyo," he said gently, his voice no stronger than the rustle of leaves on a windy autumn eve.

His lord shifted his weight unconsciously from his left arm to the right, and gave a low grunt. Two centuries ago, such a movement would have made him scream in pain, Tyelcano knew, but the world has changed and so has he. Maedhros became strong in body, stronger than he ever was.

"My lord," the Counsellor called again, a bit more loudly this time, but still not permitting himself to touch Maedhros. He leaned closer. "You need to wake! I have grave news."

 _"...all flowers shall wither,"_ Maedhros mumbled and he lifted his head for a while, only to find himself a more comfortable position, putting more weight on his shoulders.

"My lord!" Tyelcano said, louder still, and touched Maedhros's left hand that was lying helplessly on the table. He knew better than to shake him. "I am sorry to disturb you in your rest, but wake, I'm begging you!"

_"...in sorrow it has started and in sorrow it must end; behold the banners as they gleam in the light of the rising sun! The night is passing but another night shall come, blacker than ink, black as the Void beyond the Circles of the World."_

Tyelcano froze. Maedhros's eyes were open now, gleaming distantly; it seemed as if he'd slipped from the state of deep, undisturbed sleep to a more conscious one where he was able to chase dreams, and live them.

The case of the report was _urgent,_ and Tyelcano had to wake his lord. Immediately. It was his duty to do so. But those words, _those words_ filled him with great wonder and disbelief. Wonder, because they sounded so strange and disbelief, because they sounded so familiar...

_"...many years could one wander and many years could he hope, yet he shan't succeed; the mountains are high and the peaks icy cold, and all flowers shall wither."_

Tyelcano gasped loudly as awe overwhelmed him. Suddenly, he became aware of _why_ did he know these words; and and at the same moment, his lord's eyes flew open, fully open, and he was awake.

"Counsellor!" he said gravely, almost commandingly, voice alert. "Dawn is still far."

"As I am aware, lord," Tyelcano said, and bowed slightly, regaining himself. "Forgive me for having interrupted your rest, but there is an important matter we should discuss immediately."

Maedhros leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs, then slid the stump of his maimed right hand from the table, out of sight, as was his custom.

"And what would that be?"

 _Urgent,_ Tyelcano reminded himself, fighting the fervent need to ask his lord about his latest wandering in Irmo's lands. _You cannot withhold him this information._

"The scouts have arrived, my lord," he said, "and brought a most... strange message."

Maedhros raised a thin eyebrow. "Tell me more."

"At first, my lord, I deemed it was some kind of tasteless joke, because – well, read it for yourself."

Maedhros took the parchment from his Counsellor, and unfolded it.

 _"Carnistir!"_ he exclaimed at once.

"That was what I read from the codes, too," Tyelcano nodded. "It may still be some kind of ruse, but that would mean someone dechipered our system of messaging, which, if you ask me, is a rather intimidating possibility..."

"No," Lord Maedhros shook his head. "Never. Besides, this is my brother's hand; his letters betray him."

Now that the first matter was settled, Maedhros proceeded to read. Tyelcano watched his face eagerly; the delicate brows rising to impossible heights, the muscles stiffening beneath pale skin, the lips straightening and pressing forcefully against each other, the line of jaws suddenly much more hard and visible. Several minutes passed in this position: Maedhros sitting like a statue, his eyes running up and down the parchment, again and again; and Tyelcano standing, waiting, watching.

And then came a moment when Maedhros placed the message on the table, and leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable.

"Do you still like wine, Counsellor?" he asked quietly.

"Wine, my lord?"

"You smell of it."

"That I shall not deny. It was late when the scouts arrived and I took the liberty..."

Maedhros raised his hand, and Tyelcano swallowed the rest of his speech immediately as his routine of serving kings and princes gained the upper hand in his mind.

"I was not scolding you - I merely wished to suggest that we try another bouquet."

With that, Lord Maedhros reached out to the top of the nearest drawer, and placed a flagon on the table. Tyelcano closed his eyes as the rich, sweet scent of wine reached his nostrils; deep in his reverie, he did not notice soon enough that Maedhros himself was the one to serve them wine.

"Counsellor? Would you be so kind and hold our goblets? I am afraid I cannot handle this situation."

His voice was at the same time amused and acid.

"I- oh – I apologise, my lord," Tyelcano sprang to his feet and reached for the wine. Silence stratched between them; Maedhros drank deep, and he did not grant him as much as a glance for several minutes. When Tyelcano could not bear it longer, he spoke up. "May I ask my lord, what your thoughts were on the report?"

"Oh, that," Maedhros leaned back comfortably in his chair. "Very interesting, do you think not?"

"Interesting is maybe not the word I would use," Tyelcano said cautiously.

"Can we settle for _amusing,_ then?"

"Definitely not, my lord," Tyelcano decided.

Maedhros took another fair sip of the wine, and studied him from above his goblet. The faint glimmer of candle-light on the metal painted a stray tress of hair orange on the side of his face.

"So my sweet Lord Tyelcano is not amused. Nor should I be, in that case. May I ask what _your_ thoughts were, then?"

Tyelcano stayed silent for a few moments.

 _By the Valar,_ he scolded himself, _you're the Counsellor in this room! If you cannot find the way out of this mess, no one shall._

"As a first thought," he said at length, "I was hoping that the message would prove fake. But since it seems to have come from your lord brother, it must be true. In that case it means... _certain possible complications."_

"Certain possible complications," his Lord Maedhros nodded, with an unmistakeable glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Begging your pardon, my lord, it sounds utterly mad whatsoever!" Tyelcano crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Like some forgotten lay of forgotten Ages. And how Lord Carnistir became acquainted with such news, I cannot imagine, unless..." he gaped in surprise as a possibility flashed through his mind.

"That _unless_ is why you're here for," Maedhros said, eyes alight with interest. "Tell me!"

"Some months ago," Tyelcano said, "a letter came from your brother Tyelkormo. Do you perchance have it in your posession, my lord? I would not intrude your privacy, but I wonder if we could find any sign of foreboding in it about..."

 _"Manw_ _ë_ _!"_ Maedhros suddenly cried out, his eyes transfixed on the ceiling, as if he was suddenly hoping to glance through it. "What a desperate fool I am! Of course – that letter has the answers; and I even remember..."

After no more than a minute of frantic rummage, Maedhros triumphantly clutched the ominuos letter in his hand, his eyes running through the text.

"Here it is," he whispered. "Listen: _I am tempted to think, brother, that the last of the intelligence of our kingly House had run out with us. Findaráto is not only a great fool, but sadly, also quite dangerous, for he spreads his folly. Here he is, seeking to accompany a mortal Man into the hells of Angamando, to steal a Silmaril - a piece of our rightful heritage - from Moringotto, in exchange for the hand of Thingol's daughter! I repeat it, Maitimo – a mortal Man!_

_They sought to hide their treason from me and Curufinw_ _ë_ _, knowing that we would strongly protest. But – as he wisely put it -, let them! We shall let the morons find their own ends, their own despair. I can only hope that Findaráto or any of those who are willing to follow him (they shan't be numerous, we'll see to that) at least won't tell the Enemy in their torment, how to best assault Nargothrond."_

This was more than Tyelcano could suddenly bear.

"Venomous words," he said in a low voice, "but they have truth in them. However, with what we know now, this means... _that they succeeded?"_

The possibility seemed unbelievable.

Maedhros's voice was very cold, "They obviously did. I was a fool; I did not pay any heed to Tyelko's warning, deeming it straightly impossible to come true."

"We have to know _how this happened,"_ Tyelcano whispered. "If a mortal Man could truly enter his fortress, Moringotto's power must dwindle..."

"A mortal Man _and the daughter of Melian the Maia,_ I kindly remind you. We have to know at first _why exactly_ my brothers were banned from Nargothrond – though the answer, I believe, would likely be high treason - and what does Carnistir have to do with all this," Maedhros said. "When that is done, we can content ourselves with hopes and dreams if you wish."

"What is your command?" Tyelcano stood.

"Letters to my six brothers, bidding them to come immediately. Send a letter to Findekáno as well, asking for news. Very formal and evasive, that one. If he knows something, he shall understand. And double the watch. As soon as any information comes, seek me out and we'll discuss it at once. You will share your thoughts with me."

"As you wish," Tyelcano bowed.

"Now find some rest, Counsellor – and take the rest of the wine with you. Delicious."

"It is," Tyelcano said, his curiosity suddenly overwhelming him. He decided to take a small risk, and sat back in the wide armchair, clutching his goblet in both his hands. In the most casual tone he could suddenly produce, he said: "Please, my lord, grant me one more moment, for I must mention... When I came to wake you tonight, you were talking in your sleep."

Maedhros said nothing, but arched his eyebrows. Tyelcano knew he was behaving in a highly inappropriate manner, but now, once in a lifetime, he did not care.

"You said something about the withering of flowers and the passing of night, and -"

"It was no more than a dream," Maedhros said in an emotionless tone. "A vision of nonexistent things. And now, if you have nothing else to discuss with me..."

 _"Dark is the night and ice crumbles beneath his feet as he crawls,"_ Tyelcano chanted half-unwillingly, knowing that he was completely out of his mind. He was interrupting his lord! _"Hideous creatures lurk in the walls and he fleds from them, draping himself into the canvas that is the night. But he who walks in starlight does not flinch; he hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks, and on he wanders, and on he wanders, but a dead end awaits. The gates are closed."_

The Lord Maedhros was staring at him in awe.

"But how could you...," he breathed. _"I did not yet arrive there in my dream!"_

Tyelcano swallowed.

"Was it not for the first time, then, that you dreamed of such things?"

"I have the same dream almost every night," Maedhros shrugged. "Withering flowers, flowing banners, darkness and icy peaks; sometimes a white city draped in moonlight. Why would you ask?"

"Because the same vision has been tormenting me for months, my lord," Tyelcano said gravely. "At first I did not pay much attention to it, thinking that it would cease in time. It did not; and I cannot help but marvel at the thought of you seeing the same dream as I."

"This is very strange indeed," Maedhros mused. "Have you ever arrived in that gleaming white city? In your dream, that is."

"Nay, my lord. The only thing I remember from these visions is crawling in the darkness, shaking all over from cold. And the gates-"

"The gates are closed," Maedhros sighed. "I know. I wonder what could it all mean."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya translations:
> 
> Súlimë – March (Gwaeron in Sindarin).  
> Tyelkormo = Celegorm  
> Curufinwë = Curufin  
> Carnistir = Caranthir  
> 'Maitimo' means 'well-shaped one'; it's Maedhros's amilessë (mother's name)  
> Findekáno = Fingon  
> Angamando = Angband  
> The Úmanyar = "Those of not Aman" ~ the politically correct name referring to "The Moriquendi" = "The dark elves" ~ those who never sailed.


	3. An Earnest Seeker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is extremely important for me. If you honor me by reading it, please let me know what you thought!

_**The palace of King Turukáno, Ondolindë, FA 467, late Súlimë** _

 

"Well met, Captain Laurefindil," said a low shrill voice behind his back. "I did not dream to find you awake."

"And tell me, why would I desecrate such a pleasant morning, wasting it on mere sleep?"

Laurefindil laughed softly, gesturing towards the thick fog sprawling above the world below his feet. The Tower of the King cut through its dim, heavy layer like a mithril-blade, graceful and glorious as ever, gleaming sharp and needle-thin. On treacherous spring mornings like this, Laurefindil was oft granted with the thrilling sensation of walking above mist and amongst clouds.

"O how beautiful the City is, do you not think, Lord Counsellor? The last few mornings left me wandering if it was still down there, though."

"Have no doubt," said Lómion and he moved smoothly closer to the balustrade. "Behold the tower-tops as they gleam proudly in the light of day and paint the rest by your memory."

Laurefindil bestowed him a sharp smile. "Is that why I find you out here at this early hour? Did you come to repaint me the beloved landscape I've been robbed of for two weeks straight now?"

"I came to wake you, Captain," Lómion said, "at the behest of the King. 'Tis his desire that I should speak with you immediately. Most strange news have flown into our City on the wings of the Eagles – none of them pleasant, I fear. The Council shall be gathered in a few days, but the King wants you to be previously informed."

"Tell His Highness that I feel deeply honoured by his trust," Laurefindil said, but this was mere formality; he knew King Turukáno valued him and valued his opinion as much as Lómion's - mostly because the pair of them were known to serially contradict each other.

Lómion received the phrase with a courteous nod and slightly hastened his steps to catch up with Laurefindil's headlong strides. They descended to a lower level of the walls, where the impenetrable blade of white rock elegantly adjoined a bridge above richly carved archways, leading to the South Wing of the Palace. At the middle of the bridge, Laurefindil halted and leaned against the epaulement. The dim tumult of fog was still well below him, but a few puffs of mist were so close he felt as though he could reach out and touch them. Dewdrops molstened his fingers as he touched the shimmering stone, and he ran them swiftly over his face. The subsiding water was clear and so cool it made him blink.

"It reminds me of the springs near Tirion," he spoke up when he saw the shadowy figure of the other Elf appearing next to him.

"I also like to wash my face in clouds, Captain," said Lómion, "but for a more simple reason; merely because I've never thought it could be by any means possible."

"I understand."

Lómion cast his keen glance upon the golden-haired captain. "Do you?"

"I do," Laurefindil gave a slow nod. "Now," he said, eyes lighting up a little, "what are those grave news the King wished me to hear about? I doubt you brought me here to converse about no more than the nature of clouds."

For an instant, Lómion seemed to sink deep in thought, troubled, which confused Laurefindil. Despite his young age, the counsellor was widely known for his composure and quick wits that never failed him.

Lómion glanced swiftly behind above his shoulders, but no one was to be seen in the surroundings, not even the Guards of the City. In response of this, his rigid posture seemed to slacken and he leaned against the balustrade next to Laurefindil, who sat loosely on the edge, letting his legs swing above the misty void. The sky was a deep, clear blue above them, the white walls of the Palace glimmering like a mountain forged of diamonds.

"Hear me now, Captain Laurefindil of the Golden Flower," Lómion spoke up hesitantly. "A few hours ago, in the middle of the night, Thorondor the Eagle himself flew to our City and voiced his wish to speak with the King; then persisted until we woke him up. King Turukáno and the Eagle then spoke in the court next to the Fountains; and their council endured until dawn. Lord Thorondor brought many news, amongst them the incredible story of Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Elu Thingol of Doriath, and Beren Erchamion, a mortal Man who together (so it is said) broke the black gates of Angamando and stole a Silmaril from the Enemy's crown. This tale, King Thorondor said, is now spreading to every corner of Beleriand, and soon it shall be heard by the Sons of Fëanáro and King Findekáno and Men and Dwarves and Sindar and Teleri; and what doom it may yet bring upon us, no one could dream."

"One of the Silmarili?" Laurefindil exclaimed. The story was indeed a flow of absurd events, but he found himself deaf to anything else. _"You said they stole one of the Silmarili?!"_

Lómion arched a thin eyebrow. "You have heard me."

"And what has become of it?" Laurefindil pressed.

"Of that, we cannot be sure; but when it comes to the Gates of Angamando..."

"Lómion, this is extremely important! What has become of the Jewel?"

Abrupt silence fell between them, and Lómion's eyebrows arched higher.

"...I apologize for cutting your speech, _Lord Counsellor,"_ Laurefindil bowed hastily, "but the question of the Silmaril is delicate and pressing. Would you please tell me everything you know about it?"

"It is said that the Jewel was brought back to King Thingol, in most unbelievable circumstances," Lómion said rigidly.

"And he kept it for himself?"

"And so he did."

Laurefindil sighed deeply as a feeling of great uneasiness started to squeeze his guts.

"That means war," he said quietly. "The Sons of Fëanáro shall never let him have it. This means another terrible battle, Lómion, where our closest kin shall slay our furthest; and all of their deaths shall be in vain."

"Let the fools slay each other," Lómion said. "It is not by accident that our wise King chose to settle amongst the Oroquilta.* What is more pressing, however, is the fact that the Enemy has been woken from his sleep and he shall by now watch his borders with a vigilance thrice as great as before. His spies are spreading everywhere in Beleriand. We have to double the watch. The King, though, has been greatly troubled for years, weighing the possibility of trying to help his brother, inviting him and his people to Ondolindë to live here; he's torn between this and shutting the borders firmly, not letting anyone to leave or enter. Mine own thoughts are the same as before: if we are to contact King Findekáno and king Thingol _now,_ we risk being discovered and thus destroyed."

"So you would just abandon them, helpless against the wrath of both the Kinslayers and the Enemy," Laurefindil said rigidly.

"I said nothing alike."

"Your words themselves contain your judgement. How could you be so cold, Counsellor? They are our kin, yours even more than mine, even though you never knew them. We should aid them, and aid them all! Who are we to judge who has the right to be safe and who has not? We have been isolated for too long."

"When it comes to the safety of my family, Captain," said Lómion gravely, "I am indeed colder than ice - and I counsel you to be as well. We are talking about the safety of the King Turukáno, who, I kindly remind you, is my uncle; and twofold he is dear to me: as a Lord and as one of my closest kin."

"The King Findekáno is your uncle, too," Laurefindil said. "I am only asking you to remember that."

"I shall," Lómion said and a cold smile rushed through his face; but his features stilled swiftly and utterly. "And I shall also clash against you in council once more, Lord Laurefindil, if need be."

"I do not doubt that for an instant, my dearest enemy. Shall these mysterious events be evolved in details there?"

"We still have to learn the details, but there is no secret that could possibly elude the vigilance of the Eagles."

"Very well," Laurefindil sighed. "Lord Counsellor, my heart is weary. You indeed gave me much to think about. Is there anything else the King wants to acquaint me with?"

Lómion closed his eyes for a moment, and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. When he opened his eyes, they met Laurefindil's; and to the Captain it seemed that the Counsellor's gaze lacked its usual sharpness. He saw the shadow of pity and concern in his eyes – open emotions, and that was remarkably unlike Lómion.

"There is one more thing," he said. "None of the news I'm bringing to you are good, so I have said before. I think with deep regret of having to deliver words of grief, but the King insisted you should hear them before the Council. I am sorry, Laurefindil, but... your friend, King Findaráto has been slain."

_"Findaráto...?"_

Laurefindil's eyes widened when he heard the name he haven't spoken for what seemed like Ages, but which has ever been there, lingering in the back of his mind.

_"...slain...?"_

And there, his eyes became even wider in horror, and he grabbed hold of the balustrade. For the smallest fraction of a second, the misty void beneath his legs seemed to attract him more than returning to his chambers to regain himself. His head reeled wildly, as if he was drunk.

Lómion's slender figure was still standing next to him, unmoved, and Laurefindil had to aggressively restrain himself from frowning. _No one_ within the walls of the Hidden City was allowed to see him perturbed. He was the Head of the House of the Golden Flower, the Captain of the King's Guards and Marshal of the Armies – not some whining elfling!

He let a shuddering breath exit his lungs and turned abruptly to the counsellor.

"I thank you, Counsellor Lómion, for bringing me the words of the King. I shall consider everything you said, and I shall dutifully clash against you in council when it comes to that. Now, I wish to be alone."

By the time he uttered the end of the sentence, Laurefindil regained the positure that his numerous titles implied, and not even a spark of emotion was visible in his bright blue eyes when he slid off the balustrade and bid a thunderstruck Lómion farewell.

 

o O o

 

Here and there, a ray of sunlight cut through the thick layer of fog, and crept slowly into the green valley of Tumladen. The silhouettes of houses and small towers were becoming visible, grey shadows on a lighter canvas, but Laurefindil paid them no more heed. Swiftly but steadily he strode back to his chambers, locked the door and collapsed onto his bed, burying his numb face into his palms. His hands were shaking from hidden tension and distress.

_Findaráto slain..._

No tears came, only trepidation and despair. Laurefindil found himself overwhelmed by self-hatred.

_He was slain – one I cared for, amongst hundreds. Or thousands, for all I know. How many more? How many more deaths I have never heard about, since I'm sitting here in peace, far from the sorrow and despair of my people?_

_Why did we let this happen? A time may come when we shall not be able to hide from the claws of Moringotto anymore. Where shall we run if all our friends are killed? We hide in this glorious city behind barred gates and impenetrable mountains, untouched by the perils of this World and thus taking no part of it._

For the very first time since he came in Ondolindë, Laurefindil found himself openly _missing_ the rest of the world; missing even the hideous Orc-faces he remembered frowning at him in battle. He missed all those friends he left when he decided to follow his king; he missed green Vinyamar and the seashores; he missed the sight of plain swardy lands gently opening before him as he rode out to the fields of Nevrast.

Now that he was truly and entirely alone, he let a single tear run down his cheek to mourn Findaráto. Not more.

 _We have been isolated for too long,_ he thought as he watched the piercing sunlight painting the walls of his room white-and-golden.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes
> 
> Name translations from Sindarin to Quenya:
> 
> Laurefindil = Glorfindel [m.: "golden head of hair"]  
> Lómion [m.: "child of twilight"] is an amilessë (mother's name) for Maeglin [m.: "sharp glance"]  
> Findaráto = Finrod [m.:"golden-haired champion"]  
> Turukáno = Turgon  
> Fëanáro = Fëanor  
> Findekáno = Fingon  
> Moringotto = Morgoth
> 
> "Oroquilta" is a Quenya transcription of the Echoriath (Encircling Mountains) around Gondolin. Since I found no Quenya equivalent for it, I allowed myself to create one. Please be gentle with me, I'm only starting to get SLIGHTLY familiar with Elvish languages. If you know better, feel free to PM me how the correct version would look like.  
> [based on: oro /mount, mountain/ + qilti- /gird, encircle/ -> quilta- /if the verb would be adapted to Tolkien's later Quenya/. Thanks to Parf Edhellen!]
> 
> Ondolindë [m.:"the rock of the music of water"] = Gondolin [m.: "stone of music"]
> 
> Laurefindil's storyline will likely use a considerable amount of Quenya. The reason:
> 
> Tuor heard the Guard of Gondolin speak "in the High Speech of the Noldor, which he knew not".  
> "Quenya was in daily use in Turgon's house, and was the childhood speech of Eärendil"  
> "Turgon after his foundation of the secret city of Gondolin had re-established Quenya as the daily speech of his household"  
> Eöl later called his son by the Sindarin name Maeglin, but Aredhel "taught Maeglin the Quenya tongue, though Eöl had forbidden it"  
> \- a collection of quotes from the Unfinished Tales / Letters of Tolkien, found at folk.no, pretty interesting. If you're interested, PM me for the link!
> 
> Thank you for reading this far! :) Please let me know what you thought about my story, it helps a lot!


	4. A Face From the Past

Hearing Lómion's call from behind, Laurefindil turned around, mentally shaking off his mild discomfort. He would have preferred to be alone as long as he could; and Valar knew, those occasions were rare and cherished...

"This morn, Lord Counsellor, 'tis me who did not dream to find _you_ awake. Have the Eagles returned?"

"Nay, my lord. Sleep avoided me this night, and I sought peace in the sight of the City; that is why I decided to take a walk. I was already heading back home when I saw you crossing the marketplace. The streets are quiet and the peace of my mind returns."

Laurefindil stared at the slim, delicate face of the young Elf. Lómion's eyes, as ever, made him uneasy; they were too lively and yet too distant, and they spoke of knowledge; a deep understanding of things well beyond his age.

"...and then you realised that your peace was decidedly perturbed by my hideous presence," he said with a challenging smile.

Lómion turned away from him, to look at radiant sunlight dancing on the snow-white bricks of pavement.

"You jest, Captain, and yet our last conversation left me tense and wondering."

"Forgive me if I said anything to offend you," Laurefindil bowed courteously. "Grief spoke from my heart; it came suddenly, and cut deeper than I could have thought."

"I know, and there is nothing to forgive. But pray tell me, Lord Laurefindil - do you think I am cold-hearted?"

The Captain's eyes widened at such a question.

"If I _did_ say anything similar to you, ever in your waking life, accept my deepest apologies, Lord Counsellor. But I do not remember speaking thusly. Elsewise... what makes you feel that way?"

"I think, Captain, that you would have to be deeply and truly outraged to offend anyone, if you are even _able_ to do such. No: you have never told me anything like this, and never did me harm. Yet it seemed to me that you thought I was – or would be - unmoved by your pain; that I could not comprehend a heartache. That I could not digest your care towards those outside Ondolindë... 'Tis no intention of mine, of course, to cross any line of intimacy, but your reaction made me ask myself if there was anything about my behaviour that implied cold-heartedness.. callousness... dispassion..."

Laurefindil stood in awe, hardly believing that it was truly _Lómion_ who stood before him, looked him in the eye, and uttered these words; several minutes passed in silence before it dawned on him that he could not avoid to give an answer.

"I think, Lord Lómion," he said at length, his tone carefully measured and his face as indifferent as he could make it appear, "that you are excellent at containing yourself. You are courteous and delicate. You are clever and observant. You know your own limits and your qualities; and you use them well. Indeed: this may at some moments make you appear stern and distant. But callous? Dispassionate? My answer to your question is _no_. No, Lómion - I do not think you are cold-hearted, or anything similar. Nor do I allow myself to judge whether appearance and behaviour – as a general trait – is a mere, unimportant shadow of what we are, or the exact opposite: a choice that determines us more than anything that is written in our hearts. All I know is that I cannot read your heart - and nor can you read mine. You may think I am reckless and unwise for grieving so deeply for my fallen friend; you may think that I am putting my pride and personal honor before the matters of our City when I ponder if we should seek contact with those outside our walls. And I, I may think Eru wrought your heart from ice and you would scorn me behind my back if you dared. But I am not arrogant enough to judge. Are you?"

"Am I?" Lómion raised his brows. "You are saying very interesting things, Captain. In your words, if I , for example, choose to protect myself from something by pulling on a mask, if I appear something else than I am by mere distrust or caution – and not by evil scheming – that may determine me. Is that so?"

Now it was Laurefindil's turn to contemplate the silvery white gleam of the pavements while they walked the streets side by side, as if they were the greatest wonder of Ondolindë.

"It determines you as someone who puts caution before truthfulness," he said at length. "Is that wrong or right? I cannot tell. Should you tell a grieving mother if her son is very likely to die? Should you rather tell her to let him go, or should you hold onto the last fragments of hope until the end? Should you betray your king if he belied the bonds of blood and honor? Should you clash against your brother-in-arms in a battle if he is grief-stricken and desperate, and might hurt others or himself?"

"Yes and yes," Lómion eyed him. "However, you should raise hope in the mother while you can. I refuse to live in a world where there is no hope. Now, Captain – you asked me three questions. Answering the first one, I let my heart lead me. Answering the second and the third ones, though... can you tell if that was a command of the head or the heart?"

"At times, they do mingle," Laurefindil mused. "May I answer you with a question?"

He expected some quick snap of Lómion's tongue in answer, something like _"you already did,"_ but there came none. The Counsellor only eyed him expectantly.

"My question is: why does it matter?"

Lómion's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Why does it matter? You could then ask – why _anything_ matters?"

"Aye, that is a fair question in return," Laurefindil laughed. "Why? And: does it?"

"I'm afraid I fail to understand you, my lord."

"And I you, Lómion. You are a bright young lord of kingly blood, one who is not only held in high esteem in the Council, but is also a skilled craftsman. Yes, you are still half a child; yes, you may still have much to learn. And you eventually will. But why do you care whether Laurefindil of the Golden Flower – or anyone else, at that -, thinks that you are cold-hearted? What would that change if I did, or did not? I already told you I didn't; but what would you do if I did? Challenge me with a sword? Send me flowers each morn?"

Lómion did not answer him.

"You cannot make everyone love you, young lord: not with your sharp tongue, your cunning mind and skilled hands. Nor could you if you were the opposite of your own self; but _if_ you were, you would lose everything you are now loved for."

"My father always told me - " Lómion drew a shuddering breath. "You... you spoke like him, and yet you did not."

"I spoke like your father?" Laurefindil sincerely doubted that, almost sure there was something else hidden behind the youth's words.

"No, Captain. You did not. Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive. I may have spoken like your Atar at some point of his life; why would that be impossible?"

"Because I have no Atar," Lómion said, and now he _did_ seem cold-hearted. Laurefindil waited for him to flee, to glare at him, to draw a weapon, _anything_... but nothing happened. The young Elf was standing with his arms recrossed, still as stone, gripping his own upper arms so hard that his knuckles whitened.

Laurefindil sighed. The young loremaster who knew every law and rule, who was smooth and convincing in the council room but hard as stone when it came to matters of state, was deep inside no more than a lonely and frightened child. He'd always suspected Lómion had more to himself than what was visible; but the sheer reality of it suddenly seemed almost as heartbreaking as the death-rate of Findaráto.

"Tyelkormo, son of Fëanáro was once a good friend of mine, did you know that?" Laurefindil heard himself saying. "We liked hunting together. Oromë himself joined us at times."

Now, Lómion _did_ glare at him.

"He was a merry youth, always boasting of his dexterity. And he had every right to do that."

"Why are you saying this, Captain?"

"Because things are different now, and it would probably come to the swords if we met. Still, that does not make him less of an old friend for me, and I refuse to hate his memory because of what happened. And you - you cannot change that once was, Lómion. Yes, you had a father, and yes, your father betrayed you. And if I truly spoke like him, 'tis only a proof that back then, he gave you the best council he could find in his heart; and that happened to be the same as mine."

"No, you don't understand," Lómion shook his head. _"You spoke like him and you did not,_ I said. My father always told me that uncertainty was weakness itself. Again and again he insisted that if I was not loved, not cared for, that was no more than a sign of envy and parvanimity of those around me. That it was not my fault, and I was to disdain those who scorned me. He told me to hold my head high, and look right through them... but I did not even have _anyone_ around me to look through. And you - you are telling me I should not care what others think of me."

"In a way, your father was right," Laurefindil mused, "but those words are bitter. You need not disdain anyone, young Lómion. Such a deed speaks not of a generous heart. You merely need to accept that you will never be loved by _everyone_ around you; such a thing is not possible."

"And wanting to be loved, " Lómion said in a low voice, " – is that a sin, Captain?"

And he left.

 

o O o

 

Laurefindil sighed in contentment as the Alley of Roses came to its abrupt end, and the green valley of Tumladen opened in front of him. For a quiet moment, he halted and let his eyes run far and free; as far as the icy peaks of the Echoriath let them, and as free as his wandering thoughts allowed. He could not grant himself much time, as he had to be on his way.

Carelessly, he crossed the fresh green sward, closing up to the edge of the encircling mountains, where the ground started to rise in a quick, almost abrupt pace and the first watchline winded, no more than a dozen feet above the rocky ground.

Laurefindil's bliss slowly faltered as he climbed the stairs and started to ponder Lómion's last words.

_Wanting to be loved? But he is loved well enough – or acknowledged, at least. What could this be all about? Did I truly say something – or did someone else?_

It honestly _was_ all but usual. Lómion preferred to hide his thoughts and feelings, and he always cared to wear a mask of confident indifference in front of those he worked with, be they craftsman, lords of might or his own uncle.

_Why would he share his thoughts with me? We were never especially close - not the slightest bit, as I recall. And why would he be concerned about me mourning Findaráto?_

This was not the first time Laurefindil felt embarrassed by the sudden trust of others. People were known to swiftly open their hearts to him, for they knew the Captain would not misuse any knowledge they granted him, and was a great listener. Laurefindil, on the other hand, found himself very reluctant to return such intimacy; and more often than not, he felt lonely amongst those who relied on him. But Lómion was different – Lómion was someone Laurefindil _did_ wish to know better, suddenly as the chance might have come.

The narrow wooden stairs of the watchline were slippery with dew, and fresh morning scents reached Laurefindil's nostrils as he climbed. Two guards rose from their posts to salute him, and he greeted them back.

"Is the Warden of the Gates on duty today?" He asked one of the guards.

"He is, your lordship," came the answer, "and your presence might as well be required by his side. The Gate of Gold is to be opened this morn."

 _This means Voronw_ _ë_ _returning,_ Laurefindil guessed, and he could not help but smile. The stern, quiet mariner was one of the lucky few the Lord Warden of the Gates held close; many times he seemed strange and distant, but he had a genuinely good heart, and most of all, he could be trusted. Also, he held the extremely rare privilege to leave Ondolindë every few years, and thus to hear everything spoken amongst the Eldar and Edain.

Laurefindil left the first guard-post, following the winding stairs on the hillside. The next entrance he arrived at was already crowned with a thin arch of stone, and more guards were surrounding it. Following an exchange of greetings, Laurefindil passed below the arch, now following a path incrusted with stones of gleaming yellow marble, equal to the composition of the sixth (and last) Great Gate of Ondolindë. His thoughts drifing away again, he did not even bother to glance at the figure that was swiftly closing up to him, then bumping right into his chest, not careful enough to watch.

"I – oh, I apologise, Lord Captain!" the newcomer exclaimed, then stood back awkwardly. It was a lanky youth, thin, but seemingly strong for his age, his clever grey eyes partly hid behind a veil of raven hair, but Laurefindil could see the reddening of his cheeks all too well.

"Now, _Lord_ Captain is indeed the most glorious title I've ever received," he grinned, watching the boy's face turn into a deep shade of crimson instead of the previous fresh red. "I might even say 'tis too much! Why the hurry, my bright young friend?"

"I was – in truth, I was sent to find you, Captain," the boy said. "My _Toronar_ bid me to call you, for his friend is returning from a long journey, and he sent forth a letter saying he had many news for you both."

"Your Toronar?" Laurefindil grabbed the boy's shoulders, and held him closer, studying the keen young face carefully. "Are you – Valar, are you... but no, you cannot be..."

"If by _Valar,_ you mean Erestor of the Fountain, then yes I am," the boy all but smirked. "I remember you, Lord Laurefindil. You used to carve me little toys and sing me songs, Ages ago."

"Ages ago!" Laurefindil laughed. "Why, it seems like yesterday to me. Little Erestor, standing tall and proud in front of mine own eyes – this is strange indeed! But let us hurry; we do not want to disappoint Lord Ecthelion _,_ do we?"

They were heading to the gate, side by side, and Laurefindil could not help but watch the youth curiously. Erestor seemed to know his way around; his garments were blue and silver with the sigil of his family upon the chest, but his boots were worn and a knife hang from his belt. He seemed to focus on everything that was happening in the surroundings, all while reserving most of his attention to the Captain.

"What are you doing on this side of the golden Gate, if I may ask?" Laurefindil inquired, when he could not hold the question in any longer.

"Mother deemed it best to send me to the City and Lord Ecthelion agreed to take me in," Erestor said proudly, rocks crumbling under his feet as he led the way up to the third line of guard-posts. "I can go almost everywhere with him! I have only arrived a week ago, and I have already seen the Caragdûr, and the Hill of Watch, and the gardens, and the Fountains and the King's Tower – and Uncle said we would also _enter_ some day!"

"Oh, we can enter even today if that is your wish," Laurefindil granted him one of his brightest smiles. "I shall also show you where I live if you are interested. I still have my books, you know."

"That would be excellent!" The brief flash of a child's innocent bliss disappeared from Erestor's face in an instant as he added politely, "Only if you do not mind, that is."

"I do not, I assure you. But why exactly were you sent here, child?"

Laurefindil wanted to know if his deductions were correct. Erestor, as many other children of the Gondolindrim, had been born amongst the Mountains, brought up in bastions and guard-posts, educated swiftly and practically between two changes of the watch. His wits have always been remarkably quick; it seemed only too right to have him trained and taught the way his parents were, then send him back to the watch.

"I am to learn," Erestor declared proudly. "I will be a soldier! My trainings shall soon begin, or so Toronar said. I could content myself with no more than following him, though. When I first came here, I marvelled at how everyone answered to him! He is far more powerful than I could have imagined."

"Aren't we all?" Laurefindil winked at him. "But behold, young one, we are arriving!"

This time, there were no guards to salute at; stepping onto a narrow, domy terrace, they found themselves face to face with a steadily pacing Lord Ecthelion. He was dressed in blue and silver, as always, lustrous black hair flowing about him; his glorious helmet was resting on a chair in the nearest corner.

"You did not waste your time, youngling, I grant you that!" The Warden of the Gates laughed out openly. "Yet you could have let our dearest Captain dress appropriately!"

"I am off duty today, you pouting peacock," Larurefindil stepped forth to embrace his friend. "Not all of us take pleasure in plastering themselves with half the contents of the armory each morn! I was already heading to you, if you must know, and young Erestor ran into me on his way - quite literally, I must say. And what on Arda is the matter with my new tunic?"

"Now that I look at it twice, squinting, 'tis almost as radiant as you, my sweet sunshine," Ecthelion grinned at the stunned – and now that he thought about it, also quite offended – Captain. "Stressful night, was it?" his friend asked when Laurefindil did not laugh with him.

 _"It was,"_ he admitted in a suddenly cool tone, taking a seat next to the balustrade. "Probably it would be preferable not to reveal what I now know, but I have... _news_ for you, and none of them pleasant."

"News? News of what?" Ecthelion sat down next to his friend, his gaze suddenly very intent.

 _"Outside,"_ Laurefindil answered, his voice no more than a whisper. Ecthelion understood at once; he knew Laurefindil as much as the Captain knew him.

His face must have showed the wave of exhausting grief that suddenly washed through his _f_ _ë_ _a,_ for Ecthelion reached for his hand and gave it a steady squeeze.

"Something happened? Someone captured... tormented... dead...?"

Laurefindil nodded.

"Which one?"

"The last – and worst. Lómion came to me yesterday..."

As far as Laurefindil could remember, Ecthelion and Lómion have never been on good terms; even now, a slight frown crossed his friend's face before he blurted out the question, _"Who?"_

Laurefindil closed his eyes, shifting uncomfortably at the strange, tingling sensation of unshed tears that came back to him with greater intensity than ever before, just when he thought it would finally pass away.

_"Findaráto."_

"Fin...," Ecthelion grabbed hold of the table. "No, that cannot be."

"The King Findaráto of Nargothrond, you mean?" Young Erestor broke in. "Did you know him, Toronar?"

"I do... I did...," Ecthelion shook his head. "This is mad. This is utterly mad. Killed?! But why? How? And who..."

"I do not know," Laurefindil sighed heavily. "I did not have the heart to ask... I could not... as much as I am ashamed to admit, I was on the verge of tears. I could not let Lómion see my turmoil, and he would have probably told me if he knew anything else. But if I understood well, no one _knows_ nothing; not even the Eagles. All we hear are tales... theories... rumors..."

"But that is not the reason why you're here today," Ecthelion eyed him.

"No, 'tis not."

Laurefindil withstood the curious gaze of his friend for what seemed like hours to him, until finally, Ecthelion drew a deep breath, and turned to his nephew. His tone was casual, almost light-hearted.

"Climb downstairs if you would, young one, and fetch us wine. If you tarry enough to find the best, you'll get to taste it as well."

"So you can discuss whatever you want in peace," Erestor nodded.

"Subtle as always, you cheeky brat. Now off you go!"

But there was a silent smile on Ecthelion's face as he uttered these words, and young Erestor whistled on his way down the stairs, in the most unlordly manner one could possibly imagine.

"You are fond of him," Laurefindil said.

"Quite so. He _is_ clever, you know. And far more observant than I have dreamed. When I first brought him here, I wanted to have him trained as a guard like his father was; but I'm starting to doubt my judgement. I think I shall take him with me to the next Great Council. When he grows a bit, he might prove useful against our sweet Counsellor Lómion. _Counsellor!_ He is, what, a century older than my little Erestor?"

"Don't search enemies where there is none," Laurefindil eyed his friend. "Lómion is more than capable; and deep inside, he has a caring heart. He showed me so, by treating me subtly and courteously when he told me the news. He also mentioned that a Council shall be summoned soon, and the matter of the stolen Silmaril discussed in details."

_"The matter of what?!"_

"Oh," Laurefindil eyed his friend in alarm, "you did not know?!"

Ecthelion could only stare at him for a while, wide-eyed, before he found his voice.

"I would have _flied_ in your quarters as soon as I would have heard such news... A Silmaril stolen?! And you just sit there and announce it like it was a most natural thing that happens every other day? _A Silmaril?!"_

Laurefindil's eyes flashed angrily.

"For the Valar's sake, Lord Warden, _not so loud, please!_ We are below open air..."

"If you look a bit further than the neck of your beloved tunic, _Captain_ , you may notice that the terrace has a ceiling."

"But no walls," Laurefindil determinedly ignored the jest. "If you haven't known this, though... then probably... nor does anyone else."

"It is to be announced at the Council, I daresay," Ecthelion studied his friend's face intently. "But Lómion told you in advance... _why?_ He wants something from you, Fin. Be very careful..."

"Why should I be this suspicious about him?" Laurefindil sighed. "You're being irresonable. He told me that it was the King's command that I should know about this."

"Why not _me,_ then?!" Ecthelion pouted. "And what exactly is _this,_ anyway? He could have lied."

Laurefindil did his best to repeat Lómion's words; when he arrived at the announcement of their friend's death, though, sadness crept back to his voice.

"He told me that Findaráto was slain. As simple as that. No details, no explanations. Just the cold fact."

"Which means that it is not only a tale," Ecthelion picked up the thought, "that a body has been found..."

"Probably," Laurefindil nodded.

"O, mighty Findaráto," Ecthelion's heart visibly sank. "I liked him a lot. He was so bright and fearless. And deeply, genuinely good-hearted. When you first told me the news, I did not want to believe you. I hoped they could somehow, some way still be false. But Findaráto... such a great loss."

"The news of his passing made me deeply sad as well," Laurefindil sighed, "but also filled me with some strange sense of foreboding. As if Findaráto's death was the last step of something, the end of a road, as well as the beginning of a new one. As if something had to... happen..."

 _"Happen?"_ The line between Ecthelion's brows deepened as he frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I felt a change in the air when I retired to my chambers last morn," Laurefindil mused. "And the following night, I had a strange dream: that is why I decided to come to you. I must tell someone..."

"So it was not even part of your plans to inform me about the Silmaril," Ecthelion recrossed his arms. "Thank you kindly!"

"I told you I thought you already knew..."

_"Then I would have come to you to discuss it!"_

"Manwë, just stop behaving like a child!"

"I hope Manwë above does hear your bidding," Ecthelion nodded his agreement, "for _he_ really should!"

"Do you care about my dream at all?!"

"Come on, Fin, you know there is nothing else in this wide world I now care more about. I only wish to lighten your mood... I hate to see sadness in your eyes."

"We have just lost one of our closest friends," Laurefindil reminded him.

"Closest? For the past centuries, Findaráto has not been quite close, has he?" Ecthelion sighed. "We knew this would happen when we followed King Turukáno... one by one we've lost our companions, and there is no one now. No one, just you and I. You have me to trust, and I have you. And now pray tell me about your dream."

"It was very strange," Laurefindil began, suddenly finding himself reluctant to speak. "And eerie. I felt stuck in a world where night was eternal; time passed and passed, the stars journeyed in the sky, but there was no dawn. I saw ice and snow everywhere, the wind was picking it up and throwing it to my face. I think I was here, in Ondolindë, but outside. Maybe around the second or third Gate... I was struggling in the snow, and a strange voice spoke to me. _All flowers shall wither,_ it said. There were no flowers to be seen, only the painted one on my shield I was carrying, that I used as a shelter for my face. _All flowers shall wither,_ the voice said again, and I shivered. _Night has fallen,_ I heard then, but it was a different voice, maybe my own, maybe yours, maybe someone else's; but a voice I knew. _Storm is coming, closing in,_ it said, _but the gates are closed._ _Will you open them?_ I did not answer; and then I saw a tall shadow heading to me. It came through the Gates and closed up, but I never saw its face. _All flowers shall wither,_ I heard again – and then I was awake, screaming and covered in cold sweat. I don't know why I was screaming, though; nor can I imagine why was I afraid of the dream. Told in words, 'tis not at all frightening."

"But very meaningful," Ecthelion eyed him. "I say, Fin, that the tall shadow is _you;_ the voice is you, the warrior hiding behind the shield is you - _everything_ is you in this dream. You're struggling with yourself. You want to do something about Findaráto, but you know as well as I that you cannot."

"Maybe," Laurefindil agreed. "Is that sure, though? Is there truly _nothing_ I can do about it?"

"Fin, for Valar's sake!" Ecthelion muttered a fair number of curses under his breath. "Must I remind you that you could easily finish in the dungeons for even having _uttered_ such words as a Captain of Guards? Must _I_ be the one who puts you there? Matters of the outside world do not concern us. It was foolish enough that you spoke your mind to Counsellor Lómion. That treacherous bat!"

"Are you giving up on our friend so easily?" Laurefindil said.

"Findaráto is dead. We both know what _dead_ means, Laurefindil... he's far away now, in a land no evil can reach. Let him rest in the Halls of Mandos and don't give in to treacherous thoughts. The Enemy's ruse has no limits... Let us hope that out friend died a honorable death and let us cherish his memory – that is all we can do for him."

Laurefindil did not answer.

"You are grief-stricken," Ecthelion touched his chin lightly. "Why? I did not know the two of you were this close."

"We were not. But Findaráto... he was kindness itself. Honor itself. And he... he _represents something_ to me. How many other friends have been killed that we don't even know about? We are sitting here, Thel, in the only remaining safe haven of our people, and _we're doing nothing_... and they call you the Lord Warden and me the Captain."

"Law is law," Ecthelion said, "or have you forgotten?"

Laurefindil remembered all too well; but before he could answer, the sound of a horn-blast cut through the fresh morning air.

Voronwë had come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes and Linguistic Delvings
> 
> 'Toronar' is a Quenya mashup for "Uncle" (toron-en-atar, brother-of-father). I preferred not to dive deeply into grammatical constructs, and simply assumed that the word had "frayed" with time and usage. The first version was 'Torenar', but let's stay realistic: most of the time, the tonality of "fraying words" remains uniform, thus the 'o'. (Also, suffixes in agglutinative languages - like both Quenya and my own – behave the same way, and I think 'en' - which is in reality a conjunction - would in this case behave as a suffix. I know, I know, no one's interested. But still).  
> You are very free to use this word in your own stories if you wish, but please remember that it is only correct for "brother-of-father". "Sister-of-father", for example, would already complicate things, since a simple mashup of the word would not be correct: it would leave the name without the necessary masculine ending. So... well. I think it is time for me to kindly shut up about grammar – but not before my usual request: please, pretty please, if you know Quenya well, correct my childish attempts. You cannot possibly IMAGINE how grateful I would be.
> 
> Of Erestor's parentage: In my interpretation, his father and Ecthelion were brothers. The brother in question was called Soronto (that is a mother's name, but the only one he used – it basically means 'Eagle'). He was one of the leaders of Gondolin's Guardians from the first days of the city's existence, and died outside the borders, during an Orc-ambush, when Erestor was still a small child – around ten, or fifteen years old. Now, in the story, he is only months away from his fiftieth begetting day, and thus his majority. Still, he appears more like a child than an adult, and that also has its own reasons. Erestor's mother may appear at some point.
> 
> The Caragdûr (m.: 'dark-spike') is a black precipice of rock on the north side of Gondolin, rarely used for executions (Eöl was, for example, shoved down from there). The name itself is in Sindarin, and it appears in this form in any account you can read about Gondolin, though sometimes I'm really tempted to call the place Morikirya ("dark-teeth" – "teeth" here referring to "sharp rocks".)
> 
> Lastly, a short notice on numeroting chapters: Technically, this would only be the third one. Posting the Prologue has messed things up, though, and I'll adapt to this. Numbers of the previous chapters will also be corrected: this is "officially" the fourth one. And we'll go on like this.
> 
> Thank you for reading this far. Please Review! :)


	5. Sea-breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those few chapters that have an exact "soundtrack", and that would be 'Northwind' by Brunuh Ville. The least this talented artist deserves for sharing his music is to give it a bit of publicity... (If you really do listen to it, don't skip parts, don't jump, don't... do anything. Just enjoy sheer perfection!)
> 
> And please excuse Ecthelion and Laurefindil for speaking a 400 years older Sindarin (and to demonstrate that in the text: archaic English) than their companions. :)
> 
> I made a digital painting for this chapter, which can be found at http://elronds-scribe.blogspot.hu/2016/07/the-seven-gates-ch-5-additional-post.html

The Gate of Gold was the sixth in line of the Great Gates of Ondolindë, and first in beauty to Laurefindil's eyes. Stern and robust it stood, a relatively low, broad wall of yellow marble, spanning the lowering crests of the Orfalch Echor. Its parapet gleamed with fiery gold, held by three shining globes on each side. Above the narrow entrance, a pyramide stood high and proud, with the image of Laurelin set upon, its flowers wrought of topaz in long clusters upon chains of gold. Representations of Anor, the Sun inlaid the inner sides of the entrance, though they were seldom seen; very few Elves of Ondolindë had the chance to glimpse them, and even fewer outsiders have ever laid eyes upon them. And even if they did, they were granted no more than _one_ opportunity to contemplate their beauty, and they never saw them again; for such was the law of the Hidden City. Any well-willing Elf was accepted in the service of King Turukáno on condition that they would never leave the Valley of Tumladen.

Clear, warm daylight glimmered upon the marble path before Laurefindil's boots as he walked towards the Gate; but it was hardly visible compared to the aura of magnificence that surrounded Ecthelion as he descended the last stairs. Dressed in deep blue and gleaming silver, his shining helm upon his head, the Warden of the Gates came forth; and Laurefindil, who knew him well, could tell that he was more than pleased with himself.

 _A great lord he is,_ Laurefindil thought, _brave, valiant and honorable – yet horribly vain. He merely wishes to greet an old friend, who is coming home from a tiresome journey; and yet dressed up as he is, he could march forth to greet mighty Eönw_ _ë and the Lords of the West, and he would not bring himself to shame._

Of all the weaknesses one could have, though, Laurefindil believed that vanity was still tolerable. Without any doubt, Ecthelion liked to seem terribly important – which he _was_ -, but as far as Laurefindil could remember, he never as much as attempted to deny, or even mask his lordliness. Ecthelion was what he was; he held his head high, always proud, always beautiful and sometimes scornful, even dangerous; yet also consequent and just when it came to decisions and responsibility. Mayhaps that was the very thing that made people (and Laurefindil, among them) admire him, follow him and look up to him.

A gust of the mountain-winds descended upon their party in a thorough assault; it made the guards raise their rounded red shields, Ecthelion swallow a curse and Laurefindil pull his golden mantle more tightly about him. The guardians of the Sixth Gate were clad in the shimmering colour of his House and he took advantage of that, borrowing a spare cloak from the armory.

 _Am I truly less vain than him?_ Laurefindil mused as Ecthelion ceremonially presented the key of the Sixth Gate and clicked the latch. If he wanted to be entirely honest with himself, he did not take the cloak to keep himself warm, but merely to hide his unusually casual attire...

The admission almost vexed him, but the next moment Laurefindil had to suppress a grin. Now which one of them was the pouting peacock...?

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and young Erestor appeared on his right side, peeking through the open Gate: a rare sight in the Orfalch Echor.

"Wine awaits on the table, Captain, Lord Warden," he announced ceremonially. "The best I have found. Shall I have my reward, then?"

"Without any doubt, young Lord of the Fountain," Ecthelion turned to him with a small smile, and Laurefindil saw Erestor slightly tremble at the way he was addressed. "We will share all goods with our beloved guest after his coming. You won't remember him, but he will know who you are. Voronwë is his name, and he is a kinsman of the King. He held you many times when you were little, but duty called him off, and now he is back. That is all you have to know for now. Lord Voronwë may seem distant, and sometimes cold, but never let that discourage you."

"I won't," Erestor said, but his voice did not sound convincing. Ecthelion drew a sharp breath, but held it in when they heard the sound of horns echoing forcefully along the lowest range of the Orfalch Echor.

One, two, three, four clear calls flew towards them on the wings of wind, and both Captain and Warden utterly stilled.

"Four blasts," Ecthelion whispered. The Warden of the Gates disappeared for a moment; and it was his friend, and only his friend who stared at Laurefindil. "Four blasts, Fin. You heard them."

"I did," Laurefindil nodded.

"Four blasts mean -," young Erestor held his chin with two long fingers, which gained him the appearance of a renowned scholar. "...guests? I've never heard four blasts in my whole life."

"Four blasts mean newcomers," Laurefindil said in a low voice. Unbeknownst to him, his fingers curled about the hilt of his dagger as he kept his sharp glance on the road beyond the Gate of Gold. "Outsiders. Voronwë must have brought strangers with him; though for what reason, I cannot guess. Mayhaps they are refugees."

"Elves from outside the Orfalch?" Erestor exclaimed in wonder.

"Yes, child," Ecthelion answered him, "Elves from outside the Orfalch. Which is exactly why you will stay by Captain Laurefindil's side while I ride forth to meet whoever is coming. Fin, get the archers ready."

Outside the first watchline, Ecthelion was his superior; Laurefindil nodded his agreement and climbed the stairs on the left side of the wall to reach the parapet, dragging Erestor with him.

"You stay behind the pyramide," he commanded sternly. "You may peek through Laurelin's lowest branches if you know your way enough to climb, but stay out of sight. We can never know who's coming, and if we can trust them.

"Yes, Captain," Erestor bowed slightly.

"Promise me that you'll do as I bid."

"I promise. I only want to see them."

"That you shall, and very soon," Laurefindil pointed. A small group of soldiers was approaching the Gate along the yellow marble path; first came two guards with lances, then two others with longbows; they were marching around a pair of way-worn travellers. Four more archers were walking at the end of the line, their eyes ever watchful. They all wore the uniforms of the Fifth Entrance, the Gate of Silver.

Laurefindil signalled at the archers; three hundred arrows glinted on three hundred strained bows, and they waited.

"Who comes to the Gates of Ondolindë, to seek hospitality among the Hidden People?" Ecthelion spoke up, his voice clear as jingling silver bells in the morning wind; but also proud like the speech of a king.

The newcomers closed in, and the wall of guards opened in front of the two hooded travellers.

"Here comes Voronwë Aranwion from the House of Ñolofinwë, with his friend, Anardil from the Household of Olwë under his protection," the taller one exclaimed. "We have walked and sailed a long, perilous road and brought news for you and the King, Lord Warden."

"Show your faces," Ecthelion commanded. The soldiers stepped aside, and suddenly, the newcomers were free to move. They threw their hoods back and opened their thick, grey cloaks to show their garments underneath.

Voronwë was the same as Laurefindil remembered him: tall, willowy and stark, and he moved with grace. The Elf he brought with himself, however, made both Laurefindil and young Erestor gasp audibly. Even from the top of the gate, Laurefindil saw Ecthelion's hand freeze in the middle of a greeting, and he himself felt a pang of nervous interest in his stomach.

The Elf called Anardil, as his title suggested, was one of the Teleri; but his shoulders were wider than usual, his legs longer, his smile broader than what was common amongst the Sea-people; and his hair flew about him thickly, abundantly as some untamed forest, in the colour of gleaming silver.

"Stay," Laurefindil said to Erestor and left the parapet, then slid gracefully down the stairs, almost jumping through the gate. The Teler lord had waken his interest.

 _"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo,_ _Voronwë, meldonya!_ I am most glad that you returned," Ecthelion came forth to meet the two Elves and clasped Voronwë's hands in his own. "And hail to thee! Be dearly welcome at the Sixth and Last Gate of mighty Ondolindë, Anardil of the Falmari," he said thenin heavy, accent-dampened Sindarin, and threw a measuring glance on the Teler. "Ecthelion I am, head of the House of the Fountain of Ondolindë, and Warden of the Gates. When thou followest our valiant kinsman, Voronwë, and enterest the first Gate, thou wert acquainted with the gravity of thy decision. Any son or daugher of the Eldalië is warmly welcomed in our City; the way in is open, but any way out is barred with sharp rock and iron. What brings thee, a mariner and traveller in the Hidden City?"

"I did not pass the First Gate, my lord," Anardil said, his voice low but vibrating with a hidden strength that reminded Laurefindil of the Sea itself. "Nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth. The Eagles flew us to the Gate of Silver, for the journey was long, and I have been wounded; Voronwë healed me as he could, but I could not grant myself the time to let my skin close. I would have only delayed our quest. We were being followed, and the Eagles disappeared with us just in time."

_"Followed?"_

Laurefindil could have imagined many smoother ways to join the conversation, but he could not help but blurt out the question. Anardil's eyes flashed upon him, and he closed his mouth with a soft _thump,_ an uncertain expression on his face; then Ecthelion spoke again with a small smile.

"Lord Anardil, I present to thee Laurefindil, head of the House of the Golden Flower, Captain of the King's Guards and Marshal of the Armies – courteous and subtle, as he ever is. Also," the Lord Warden glanced mildly upwards, "on top of the gate, thou mayst notice my beloved nephew, Erestor in the process of ruining King Turukáno's favorite statue of the mighty Laurelin _._ "

Two slim hands and a pair of peeking grey eyes disappeared in an instant behind the golden pyramide. Anardil smiled broadly and clasped the hand Ecthelion offered him, then bowed slightly in front of Laurefindil.

"Well met, Lord Warden and Captain of Guards," he said.

"Well met, Lord Anardil," Laurefindil echoed him. "I am grieved to hear that thou hast been wounded. Would riding be a nuisance to thee?"

"Riding? I believe I could try it," Anardil raised an eyebrow, "but I cannot see any horses in the surroundings. Can you even keep them alive in this icy mountain-land of yours?"

"Ai, we can," Laurefindil laughed. "Lord Ecthelion and I still miss our previous homeland, Nevrast at times, and verily. The meadows there were large and wide, and we would race our mighty stallions along them."

"And even since our races here are much shorter, they have not ceased," Ecthelion nodded. "We still have the sons of the sons of our best stallions."

Laurefindil sent off three guards for horses, then reached out to clasp Voronwë's arm.

"My dear friend!" He said fondly, and pulled the startled Noldo in a bold embrace. "How glad I am that thou hast returned!"

"You honor me, Laurefindil," Voronwë said in his stern voice. "Yet it haunts me to see the shadow of turmoil and sadness in your eyes; and I hate to admit that the news we bring are not at all pleasant, either."

"Who dareth to hope for good tidings in these times of peril?" Laurefindil sighed. "I can only wish that those news are already known to us. I feel like I could not stand another strike of grief today."

"That we shall see," Voronwë answered almost casually, but Laurefindil knew him well, and saw the question in his stormy grey eyes. Anardil, on the other hand, threw Laurefindil an openly curious glance.

"I've been told that this City was an island of peace and prosperity, and that no harm could ever come to it. I've been told that its beauty and grace matched that of Tirion in Aman, and that is a sight I long to see... How comes, then, that even the Lords of Ondolindë have friends to grieve?"

"That, Lord Anardil, is not a matter to be discussed this far out amongst the watchlines," Ecthelion answered him, his voice soft but commanding. "Follow us, and answers shall come to thee."

 

~ § ~

 

By the time they climbed upon the terrace behind the Gate of Gold, Erestor was already there, serving them wine in four large goblets. He greeted the two travellers courteously and smiled at Voronwë when the Noldo grabbed hold of his shoulders, and stared at him in wonder, asking if Erestor still remembered him.

While everyone else was occupied with settling around the table, Laurefindil watched Anardil from the corner of his eye, wandering how this bold, free creature became friends with the always cold, always collected Voronwë. They could not have been more different; the only thing they shared was the clear, distant, yet lively gleam in their eyes, a privilege of those who discovered the Sea. But Anardil's eyes themselves were nothing like Voronwë's, either; they gleamed with a fresh, bright shade of green Laurefindil had never seen before. Those eyes slightly unsettled him; they seemed to mock the whole world, all while seeing through everything, and understanding more than he ever could.

"Come, Captain, take a seat," Ecthelion called, and Laurefindil settled beside him, his eyes still on Anardil, who sighed softly and stretched his long legs under the table. _His shoulder is wounded_ , Laurefindil could now see from the way he let the muscles on his right side loose, _maybe the collarbone cracked_.

"Good wine," the Teler broke the silence that stretched among them. "Delicious."

"It came from thy people," Laurefindil raised an eyebrow, "with the last trade we could make before the Enemy last attacked the North. Do _you_ not recognise it?" He added experimentally. He had not spoken Sindarin in several hundred years, and according to his companions' speech, it seemed that the use of pronouns had considerably simplified since he'd last used the language.

"I fear I must have forgotten the taste of wine," Anardil muttered.

"Forgive my friend, Lord Laurefindil," Voronwë broke in. "The pain in his shoulder is sharpening his tongue."

"I meant to offense, Captain," Anardil added with a slow nod, "I truly _did_ forget it. The past few years... well, suffice to say, I have seen happier times in my long life. Back in the years of peace, I was one of King Olwë's household - one of importance, if I am permitted to say such. I saw Fëanor when he came, and claimed all my ships along with others; those were all my wealth, everything I had... and they were stolen and burned, my mother killed, my father drowned and our house put to flames. I lived near the shores..."

Laurefindil could not take his eyes off the Teler. He spoke softly, without the smallest hint of anguish or indignation within his voice, as though they were merely conversing about the weather. His eyes were hollow and empty at first, but as he recounted the loss of his family and beloved ships, deep wells of sadness opened within them.

"How comes, then, that thou dwellest not in fair Alqualondë still?" Ecthelion asked.

"I could not linger there, and lament the loss of everything I have ever had," Anardil said. "My King granted me leave; I built a new ship and came to Beleriand, and here I shall remain. I have travelled far, I have seen lands ever dark, ever cold; but also ever green and rich. I see your proud kingdoms as they rise and fall, and I hate you not, Lords of the Ñoldor; I hate you not. You are not the true Enemy; that is why I am here to tell your King everything I have learned on my last journey. _That_ is what you fail to take in those thick skulls of yours, while you rant on and on about your endless grievances and strifes."

 _"What have I told you about High Elves and courtesy?!"_ Voronwë exclaimed; but Laurefindil and Ecthelion exchanged a swift glance, and they smiled; and somehow, the Captain knew that the Lord Warden felt the truth in these rough words as much as he did.

"No one can tell thee, Lord Anardil, that thou art reluctant to speak thy mind," Ecthelion said softly. "The King shall like thee."

"I relish to hear that, Lord Warden," Anardil said, "and pray forgive me, if my words have by any means offended you - or you, Captain, or you, young Lord Erestor."

"Or me," Voronwë broke in. "If that holds any interest to you, _mellonamin."_

"I believe I have already offended you enough times to learn not to take it in," Anardil gave him the shadow of a smile. "But what I truly wished to say was - ever since the pits of hell opened below our lands in the Bragollach, I am afraid, my lords. Many Sindar, Nandor, Ñoldor, those few Teleri who still wander the shores, and some mighty houses of Men... we are all leaderless, wandering like leaves in the wind. And the Enemy grows in force, his Shadow spreads further, ever further. You have your hidden kingdom, deep amongst these mountains; King Fingon has Hithlum and his watchtowers; King Thingol and his Queen watch over the woodlands... you are all separated, and forces of the Enemy are starting to fill the holes between your lands. I am not skilled in warfare, my lords, nor am I familiar with the ways of your people, but of one thing I am sure: _something has to_ _happen._ Someone has to... _do something."_

Laurefindil had to swallow a gasp as he heard his own words from less than an hour ago, spoken by this strange Elf who seemed to have come from the ends of the world.

_Here I have the proof that I was right._

"In the past year, my lords," Anardil went on, a shadow of sorrow upon his brows, "I have been imprisoned in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the fortress of Sauron, that accursed lickspittle of the Enemy. My luck saved me from being dragged on to Angband, but my dwelling in Sauron's halls was still filled with anguish, pain, humiliation and great fear. By the grace and mercy of the Valar, I got away, though paid a great price for it. Also," here, Anardil sighed heavily and raised his head to meet first Ecthelion's, then Laurefindil's eyes, "I brought you tidings of the death of one who – so I was told - had been a dear friend to both of you."

"Findaráto," the Captain and the Warden said in unison.

"Indeed," Voronwë broke in, "but how could you possibly know about this?!"

"Theoretically, we cannot," Ecthelion said, "and thou better forget that we mentioned it at all. But Counsellor Lómion is friends with the Eagles, and apparently, Laurefindil is now friends with Counsellor Lómion."

"Now, now," there was a shadow of a smile lurking on Voronwë's face, "when did that happen?"

Laurefindil did not answer him; instead, his gaze remained fixed on Anardil's face.

"What befell to Findaráto?" he questioned, gazing deep into those disturbingly green eyes. "What became his death?"

The Teler swallowed, and looked away.

 _"What happened, I ask thee!"_ Laurefindil persisted.

"His death was not... easy, my lord," Anardil managed. "If you do not mind, I shall... I shall provide a detailed description only if and when your King commands me to."

"Tell us as briefly as possible," Laurefindil whispered, "I beg thee! How did he die?"

"He was bit... or more honestly: _lacerated_ by a werewolf, my lord," Anardil finally said. "And I, along with other prisoners, was made to watch. Your friend fought fiercely, even though he had no weapon but his nails and teeth. He managed to kill the beast with his bare hands, but died shortly after."

Laurefindil swallowed, fighting the sudden wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach. His imagination was nothing if not visual...

"He died defending... a friend of his, as I shall recount to your King in more details," Anardil went on, drawing a deep breath. "And that friend has been rescued, along with some of us, though he was heading elsewhere. I led south all former prisoners who could walk, but a band of Orcs invaded us a few days later, and my companions were massacred to the last Elf. One of those filthy beasts wounded me between my bladebones, then I got my shoulder cracked... my blood was flowing like a river, and all I remember from that hour is terrible, searing pain. I fell into the Sirion and grabbed hold of a swimming loggat before fainting; I do not know how my enemies' arrows avoided me. And then... then I do not remember what happened. When I woke again, I was in a boat, and this strange, dark elf who turned out to be Voronwë was tending my wounds."

"This sounds like a heroic lay, Lord Anardil" young Erestor suddenly said. "But who was King Findaráto's friend?"

"I believe that will be something to discuss solely with our King," Ecthelion said when Anardil did not answer at once.

"I think so, Lord Warden," Voronwë said. "That is precisely why Anardil agreed to come with me: he believes that he could provide useful information to King Turukáno."

"Tidings these days are more precious than gold," Laurefindil said, "but I still marvel at thy wit and valiance, Lord Anardil. All thralls of the Enemy fantasize about their escape; but very few of them accomplish the task in truth."

"If mere luck is a virtue," Anardil bowed, "then I can accept your praise, Captain. Elsewise, there is none other than King Findaráto to be held in honor."

"Still, I wonder how..." Ecthelion shook his head mildly. "But never thou mindest. We shall have our answers soon, and so shalt thou. Now tell me, how did your journey go? And who was following you?"

"The Orcs were hunting me, but lost track at the seashores," Anardil grinned, and Laurefindil marvelled at the sudden change in his mood; the shadow of past fear and agony completely disappeared from the orbs of his lively green eyes. "Voronwë was very subtle and evasive at the beginning, but eventually, I told him about my life, and he told me about his, along with a few goblets of wine."

"Bottles, unfortunately," Voronwë remarked.

"Thou might already know him better than we do!" Ecthelion smiled. "And how were the seas?"

"Stormy, all the way long; on my journey, at least," said Voronwë. "The Lord Ulmo seemed to be constantly raging and I hardly saw Anor; most of the time, the winds betrayed my crew and our ship danced from one side to the other like a drunken soldier. We lost nearly all our provisions near Falas, and we arrived exhausted to the havens of Brithombar – several hundred miles south from our original destination, I remind you. We are living perilous times, Ecthelion."

"You are indeed lucky to be safe in this City, my lords," Anardil nodded his agreement. "Peace and safety are something I have not known since my ships were stolen and burned."

"Many of us feel that way, Lord Anardil, and not without reason," Ecthelion said. "May ye both find rest within the walls of our City!"

"How kind of you, Lord Warden! But I do not intend to harness such gratitude," Anardil smiled broadly at the silent, and suddenly very intent Ñoldor around him. "I am no soldier, nor guardian, not even a Lord of renown; I am a simple _ellon_ who, in these times of evil and peril, hopes that he could be useful. I merely wish to tell your King a few stories he might find interesting – and then I'm on my way! The Sea is my home, and your City, however fair and glorious it might be, is foreign to me."

"I have told you countless times, friend of mine, that things are not as simple as that," Voronwë said alarmingly.

"Law is law," Ecthelion nodded. "I told thee as well, my lord – if thou comest in, there is no way out."

"If I am not mistaken," said the Teler with a downright _smirk_ , "there is a King in this City. According to the traditions of my humble people, Kings are chosen to rule their faithful Lords; even the Lord Wardens and Lord Voronwë-s – _even Captains, mind you_ -; therefore, the King's decision may overwrite yours, my dearest lords. Are the ways of the Ñoldor any different, when it comes to the role of their Kings?"

 _"Courtesy, Anardil!"_ Voronwë snapped, but Ecthelion only laughed, Laurefindil watched the Teler in amazement, and young Erestor stared at him wide-eyed: if Manwë himself had suddenly appeared from the empty air to take a seat at their table, his reaction probably would not have been any different.

"Well," said Ecthelion, "brave Lord Anardil, if thou convincest our King to open his gates to thee, I swear I'll give thee my best chainmail as a parting gift. 'Tis a bet."

"Very well," Anardil shook the hand that was offered to him. "And you, Lord Warden, shall ask any gift from me if I won't succeed. I cannot promise such a mighty gift, but I am skilled in wood-carving."

"Well and done," said Ecthelion. Laurefindil threw an uncertain glance at Voronwë, who shook his head in resignation; then he saw young Erestor grinning, a full goblet of wine in his hand. When he stared at him, the boy formed the word _"Promised"_ with his thin lips, and Laurefindil gave in to utter defeat.

Later, their conversation deflected towards lighter topics. Voronwë told them about his long journey North, after losing his ship, and the yellow and blue flowers of Nevrast Laurefindil missed so painfully; then Anardil told some of his own stories about storms, strange, distant islands and foist merchants. They both complained about the weather, and most of all, the Orc-bands and outlaws roaming across Beleriand. Ecthelion and Laurefindil gladly joined this discussion, even though they haven't seen any Orcs for a century at least.

"Things cannot go on as they are, if the folk of Beleriand want to survive. If only someone would gain the upper hand amongst the proud and mighty lords all over these lands!" Voronwë sighed. "If only someone, _anyone_ would gather the strength and the courage to unite the wandering troops, the once brave and honorable soldiers strolling about the roads, once so proud Men killing or begging for food... 'tis horrible to see once so mighty folk stoop so low; and this cruel change is more prominent to my eyes each time I set out on a new journey. Since King Ñolofinwë has been killed..."

"Findekáno is worthy of him," Laurefindil suddenly said. "Give him time, and his rule shall strengthen further than his father's."

"Let us hope that," Voronwë said gravely, "but I have my doubts."

"King Turukáno has an army of twenty thousand," Ecthelion said. "I believe he would be the one thou seekest: the protector of all."

"But the Gates of Ondolindë are closed," Voronwë sighed. "And should they be opened any time, that will mean the end of us; because sooner or later, the Enemy shall find us and break our walls."

Laurefindil let out a soft sigh, and watched the sunlight in the distance, as it danced from one snowy mountain-peak to another. All of them have tried multiple times to lighten the mood at some point of their discussion (save young Erestor who just stood in the shadows and listened, becoming slowly, but steadily drunk), but they always came back to the same point in both their words and minds: to the desperate desire of acting, and helping those in need. Somehow. Some way.

But the way was hidden.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Anardil is an OC, and everything you need to know about him for now is presented in this chapter. (Fun fact: he is Elentirmo's father. Tirmo must have taken his genuine insolence from someone - and for once it's not the Noldo side...)
> 
> 2: Voronwë is canonically related to Ñolofinwë.
> 
> 3: "The Falmari" is a name for the Teleri of Aman. [m.: wave-folk] It is deliberately in Quenya, even though Ecthelion is trying to speak Sindarin ;)
> 
> 4: I wondered an awful lot, how would it be the best to show Ecthelion's and Laurefindil's difficulties in Sindarin. I can't make them speak in five-word sentences without making them lose a great part of their dignity... that is why I came up with the idea of including archaic pronouns, and Shakespeare-styled greetings. It may sound a bit comical at times (as it is meant to be in the actual story...! :) ) but what I was trying to truly show here was that they speak a, like, 400 years older Sindarin than Voronwë (due to his journeys) and Anardil (due to the fact that his own language, Telerin, is not likely used in Beleriand...).  
> (All I know of archaic English comes from my reading of Shakespeare texts. I would be very thankful if someone of greater knowledge helped me correct mistakes and inaccuracies, as unlikely as it is to find a person like this).
> 
> 5: About Voronwë and his journeys: I stick to the belief that before the Nirnaeth, Turgon actually had important connections outside his realm, and said connections were maintained with the aid of secret messengers - like Voronwë. That should suffice for now, since I don't want to spoil the whole story of his journey, and later events - in case someone is actually reading this story... :)


	6. The First Betrayal

_**Maedhros's study, the Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the first day of Víressë** _

 

The green hills of Himlad seemed to stir with buzzing life, awakened and rallied by the feather touch of spring. A faint promise of sunlight peeked through the heavy windows, painting grey stripes of sunlight on Counsellor Tyelcano's dark cloak as he entered the room, his arms tight against his chest to keep a messy heap of parchments from falling. Gingerly, he placed his burden upon his lord's desk and unfolded the thickest of the scrolls; it was a large map. Lord Maedhros was observing the process without any comment, his eyes bright and intent, his fingers drumming impatiently on the table.

"Have you sent them?" he suddenly asked.

"Yes, lord," Counsellor Tyelcano said. "I sent off all the letters as swiftly as possible, save the one you meant for King Findekáno. That I restrained and rewrote, as was your wish."

Maedhros's drumming ceased for a moment, and Tyelcano found himself in the very centre of his attention once again.

"Good. Read it to me, will you..."

"At once, lord," Tyelcano said, and unfolded another scroll, on which he'd scraped numerous versions of the same, one-paragraph message, knowing his lord's desire for perfection. He chose the last one - which he deemed the best, and the most evasive, as had been the request - and drew an eager breath to read it aloud, only to let out the air from his lungs in a flummoxed _huff_ when suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Maedhros's eyes meet his for a moment, and the Counsellor slightly shook his head to answer the unspoken question. He'd been unaware of any expectable guests or homecoming scouts, and the prospect of such seemed less than likely. The watch on the borders had been doubled lately, and several troops of orc-hunters roamed about the wastelands: each and every hand that could hold a sword was exiged in service. Unless some kind of distaster had stroke, unless someone was in grave need of aid, no scouts were expected to return in less than a few weeks. And if something had been amiss, the guards on the walls would have been already warned by horns, by bells ajingle, or by some other means of swift and desperate alert. Since the Battle of the Sudden Flame had reduced the green, fertile plains of Ard-Galen to a rotting, reeky desolation of ash and ruins, the watchers of the East slept little and less, and their ears were ever sharp, their vigilance never ceasing.

"Enter," said Maedhros sternly, and Tyelcano immediately sank the draft in a pouch on the inner side of his cloak. A letter to the High King was a delicate and confidential matter: the less people knew about it, the better their odds seemed. At first impression, though, the effort seemed vain, since it was the Captain of Guards himself, Tulcestelmo who appeared in the gap of the door.

"My Lord Maedhros," he said in clumsy Sindarin, which was suspicious enough for the two Elves to rise from their seats, "Here comes a messenger from the Halls of Menegroth, who brings you words from the King Thingol of Doriath."

Maedhros's eyes went wide, and Tyelcano saw the knuckles of his hand whiten as he gripped the edge of his desk as he rose; and he could not blame his lord for such a moment of carelessness, since his own mind was racing as well. King Thingol had not sent a messenger to any Son of Fëanor since the long-gone feast of Mereth Aderthad; the King of the Sindar overlooked Maedhros's lordship and potency just as haughtily as he sometimes seemed to disregard his. There was no friendship or connection between Menegroth and ever-cold Himring; but nor was there enmity, at least. Was that now about to change?

 _Could it be,_ an audaciously hopeful voice in the back of the Counsellor's mind whispered, _that Thingol finally saw reason, and he seeks for our friendship? Could it be that he decided to restore the rightful heritage of my lord? Could it be that he finally admits to be in need of our help?_

Nay; if he was honest with himself, neither of these options seemed to be by any means likely.

_Lords change little, and Kings change less. There must be some other reason for the Woodelves to send us a messenger._

_But what could be that reason?_

The more ferociously Tyelcano pondered the issue, the more his queries deepened, and the less he dared to expect the answer to prove favorable. Luckily, though, he did not have much time to brood on possible outcomes, disasters and misfortunes, since Maedhros took a steady breath, and restored in an instant the expressionless, solemn mask he wore as Warden of the East.

"Let him enter," he said, "and speak."

The gap between the door-wings widened, and a lonely Elf came forth, clad in the grey-green colors of Menegroth. When he was granted entrance in the study, he threw back the large hood from his head to show a pale, austere face. The shadowy line of a scar ran through the side of his cheek; it was faint, and already covered by scab, but Tyelcano's adept eyes could see it must have been long and painful to heal.

"Be welcome in my halls," Maedhros said to the newcomer before he could do as much as open his mouth. The lord's Sindarin was well-practised, but despite the euphonious taste of Quenya lingering in the tone and base of his sonants, it also seemed effortless. "I am Lord Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of Himlad and Warden of the East; and this is my counsellor, Lord Tyelcano. Please enter and sit, for we much desire the message of your King to be delivered."

"I greet you, Lord Warden, Lord Counsellor," the messenger said, and granted the two Ñoldor a respectful bow before settling down in one of Maedhros's wide armchairs. Seemingly exhausted, and still wary of his journey across unguarded lands, he sank gratefully between the pillows, but Tyelcano could feel some kind of general alarmedness in his figure. "Feredir is my name, and my King chose me to deliver grave tidings to you, Lord Warden. First of all, I inform you with regret that two dozen scouts, bearing the sigil of your House have been found dead near our borders, now not entirely six weeks ago."

"In which color they were clad in?" Tyelcano asked immediately.

"Unadorned black, my lord, with the Star gleaming silver upon their chests."

_Carnistir's men, then._

Tyelcano cast a knowing glance upon his lord; this was a piece of information, and a very precious one at that: a clue that could possibly lead them to the origins of the sinister message that spoke of a stolen Silmaril. Maedhros obviously followed his trail of thoughts, and yet he gave no sign of neither approval nor dismay; he simply sat, and listened.

"My King had previously intended to send you a message, Lord Warden," Feredir went on, "but circumstances made it temporarily impossible for even our best men to cross the borders of the Fenced Lands. Thusly, it is only now that I am able to inform you that the previously pledged union between your and King Thingol's Houses has unfortunately proved a fruitless endeavour; and my King offers to the House of Fëanor to lay the matter aside, and leave this rewardless attempt out of account if it ever comes to any further collaboration between our forces."

_"Excuse me?"_

The solemn, lordly mask slipped down from Maedhros's face in an instant; and Tyelcano suddenly found that he was unable as well to hide his surprise and displeasure at the half-scornful words.

"Would you mind developing that a little bit, Feredir of Doriath?" Lord Maedhros asked, his voice half amused, half acid. "I cannot quite remember which one of my secret Sindarin lovers you are currently talking about."

The mockery, barely audible in his voice, was reduced to harmless teasing; and yet Tyelcano could not help but cast an alarmed glance upon his lord. Maedhros was the wisest and the most considerate among the Sons of Fëanor, and doubtlessly, it was he who possessed the best talent for politics - and yet at times, his words wandered loose. Such a snap of tongue could have earned him more than a dark glare in the presence of King Thingol... but Feredir of Doriath was a young Elf, and of better taste for jests than most of his kinsmen (as far as Tyelcano was concerned). Despite all his efforts, the messenger could not suppress a shy grin, which was almost immediately taken over by his astonishment.

"Could it be, then...," he managed, "that your lordship has yet to hear about the affair of the Lord Celegorm and our beloved Princess Lúthien?"

Maedhros leaned forward in his chair, the spark of amusement overwhelming in his bright grey eyes.

"Pray enlighten me."

To both his and Tyelcano's great surprise, Feredir shifted uncomfortably in his chair, putting the weight of his shoulders from one arm to the other.

"Forgive me, Lord Warden, if my question is by any means too bold," he said at length, "but... may I inquire exactly how much do you already know? Are you aware, for one, of the quest Princess Lúthien pursued with a certain Beren, son of Barahir?"

"I do know of the stolen Silmaril, if that is your question," Maedhros said starkly, before Tyelcano could voice his displeasure, "and I know where it is. I also know that my brothers have been banned from Nargothrond... and that Morgoth sleeps no more."

Feredir shuddered when he heard the Enemy's name, but then his eyes widened.

"Is that... is that all, my lord?"

Maedhros cast him a long glance - as if he'd been pondering if the messenger could be trusted enough to mention Findaráto and his own suggestions upon what could have earned Celegorm and Curufin a ban from Nargothrond - but to Tyelcano's relief, he gave a curt nod.

"Aye, that is all... am I missing something?"

The messenger let out a stormy sigh, temporarily forgetting about his manners.

"Apart from grave tidings, I have brought you a letter from my King as well, Lord Warden," he said wearily, "but if your lordship's knowledge of recent events is indeed reduced to these previous informations, I should perhaps give account of a few things before I hand your lordship the letter. I am grieved, Lord Warden, that is it me who should bring you these tidings, and not one of your kinsmen, as you would have deserved."

"Please tell me you are not bringing me tidings of death," Maedhros said.

"And yet I am, my lord," Feredir rose to his feet to bow in front of him once again. "Please receive my King's, my Queen's and all my people's deepest condolences. I inform you with regret that your cousin, King Finrod Felagund of Nargothrond has been brutally murdered."

_Brutally murdered._

_Not "fell in battle", or "perished", or "killed"._

_Brutally murdered._

A feeling of great unease was surging in Tyelcano's stomach; the same disturbing, urging need to _act_ he had felt when the mysterious message of Caranthir had been passed on to him by a troop of homecoming scouts. If he had previously suspected that something was greatly amiss, then _now_ he could be entirely sure.

"This is grave news indeed," Maedhros said, his eyes distant. Tyelcano's lord was sitting cross-legged in his armchair, proud and strong as ever, but his shoulders slumped for a moment, as if struggling under some invisible weight. "It grieves me, and deeply, that Findaráto walks these lands no more. A great lord he was, proud, but not without humbleness... and close kin to me. My heart weeps for his kindness, and his wisdom and valor shall much be missed this side of the Sea. And yet, part of me finds solace in the thought that instead of being captured by the Enemy, he is at least at Mandos now, having cast away the chains of his hröa. Morgoth cannot do him further harm and we, who are left in Endórë, must go on; for his sake as much as for ours. Tell me, Feredir of the Woods, who rules my cousin's people now?"

"Orodreth, son of Angrod," said the messenger, "and his realm is no longer in turmoil; his strength is rising, and his borders are being restored."

"Why should the realm of Nargothrond be in turmoil?" Maedhros asked intently, propping his chin up with two fingers.

"That, Lord Warden, is one of the things I must recount," Feredir said. "It shall be a long tale."

"In that case," Maedhros said, "I wish to listen to it comfortably. You have come a long way, Feredir of Doriath, and I ask you for more tidings that your King commanded you to give. The least I can do for you is to ease your weariness and make you forget the perils of the road. You must be hungry and worn out. Counsellor, please," he turned to Tyelcano, "bid a servant to bring us food and wine, and come back here as soon as you can. I want you to hear the tale as well."

 

§ ~ § ~ §

 

When Tyelcano returned, Feredir was seated at the same spot, facing Lord Maedhros at the other side of the wide desk. Lunch and wine was soon being served, and Tyelcano loaded up his plate with soused meat, fresh leaves of lettuce dressed in saffron and herbs, and several dippers of richly seasoned mushroom-stew to ease the discomfort of their guest. He knew that Lord Maedhros was not very likely to eat properly, not while being this alert and curious. Then he took his place between his lord and the messenger, on the shorter side of the table, and listened.

His predictions came true: his lord's appetite was reduced to sipping a cup of rich, thick soup, his eyes ever intent on the messenger, who - drawing courage from Tyelcano's pretense of voracity and giving himself up to the temptation of warm food - stuffed his plate and drank his fill. Presumably, he was unused to dine in study-rooms, but Maedhros oft commanded his meals to be served upon his desk, and Tyelcano was already used to his preferences. As for Feredir, he seemed too hungry to care.

And much later, when only a few flagons of wine remained on the table, the messenger leaned back in his chair, and began his soliloquy.

"I do not even know how or where to begin such a vast tale, Lord Warden," he admitted, and took a small sip from the chalice in his hands. "I thank you at first for treating me in such a generous way; the hospitality of your halls is indeed unmatched. I shall try to pick up the threads of happenings without forgetting or overlooking anything; and for that purpose, I shall dwell into the far past, to reach the very roots of the most unfortunate events of times nigh."

A thin cloud swam in front of blazing Anor in the skies, and covered his gleam for a few moments, as if to foreshadow Feredir's tale. Tyelcano leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes; despite the utter contentment of his stomach, all of his senses told him that he was not at all going to like what he was about to hear.

"When the terrible Flames struck from the North, a dozen years ago, my people chanced to maintain safe distance from the fires and the Enemy's wrath; but that never lessened our fear of his malice. Thrice as warily and vigilantly held we our watch as before, and we despaired over every piece of news, all death-tidings of princes and captains and heroes we knew or heard of. All we could hope for, all we could rely on those times was the vigilance of the Ñoldor in the North, and in the wild East. Many in our woods deny this still, or they don't want to hear about it; but nevertheless, it is true. With fervency we had hoped that the Enemy would not find his way to our hidden city of fair Menegroth, or that of proud Nargothrond. And yet in the end, the shadow of evil had been cast upon both; but the reasons for that lie far ahead."

"Our hearts soon grew hot, and many of us wished to take up arms, leave the shelter of the Fenced Lands and march to aid your people and the Lords of Dorthonion as we could. And yet our King - led by the wisdom of his long years, some said, or led by his mistrust of the Ñoldor and his own forces, said others - remained in his seat and denied any request to march openly against the foe. And yet he did not remain idle. His keen mind - so it is said - oft wandered past the borders of his lands, and so did the searching glance of our Queen; mayhaps that is how it happened that the presence of Beren, son of Barahir, who wandered our woods unseen, unconsidered, who laid his eyes upon our beloved Princess Lúthien had been overlooked. And Beren was bold enough to ask King Thingol for his daughter's hand; and the King refused him in anger and disbelief, but Princess Lúthien was willing. And thus King Thingol set an impossible task upon Beren as a bride price: he asked him to steal a Silmaril from the Enemy's crown to win his approval on his union with the Princess."

Tyelcano and his lord both nodded. That much was known to them.

"Beren was valiant enough to attempt the Quest," Feredir went on. "Remembering the oath King Finrod Felagund had sworn to his father, he rode to Nargothrond and spoke to King Finrod, who stayed true to his word, and offered him help."

"...and that was the hour when the first complications aroused within this glorious Quest," Maedhros said with pride. "For no living creature, be they Eruhín or creature of Moringotto, can keep a Silmaril for themselves, lest the wrath of the Sons of Fëanor pursue them beyond the Circles of the World. Surely every single soul in Beleriand is aware of this. To take it lightly would be folly; to disregard it completely, as the good folk of Nargothrond apparently did, borders _insane._ Surely, I cannot blame your King for his request: for having spoken of stealing one of the Jewels to describe _impossible_ for this mortal Man; but I most certainly have great trouble understanding _why_ my cousin would have envisaged or even considered such a quest."

"He was binded by his own words of honor, Lord Warden," Feredir said. "Much like you are."

 _Fool! You should not have said that,_ Tyelcano winced inwardly. A spark of some secret fire flashed in Maedhros's eyes, and he smiled ruefully, almost mockingly.

"Aye," he said softly, almost gently, "how thoughtful of you to remind me."

The messenger, slightly terrified, opened his mouth to form an apology, but Maedhros waved him off.

"Pray go on with your tale."

"As you wish, my lord," Feredir complied, his voice slightly shaking.

Tyelcano cast a curious glance upon him; the messenger seemed quiet, respectful, even shy in his own way, but he was clearly no coward. If he was _this_ uncomfortable with going on, something truly terrible must have been happened.

"...your brothers, Celegorm and Curufin shared your opinion, Lord Warden; and when Beren's request and King Finrod's will of helping him was announced in the halls of Nargothrond, they spoke against the king. It is said that over the years they spent there, they gained influence on King Finrod's people; and when they saw Beren, they could not contain their rage, therefore their followers were also raging. For when the Quest of the Silmaril was announced to be embarked, Lord Celegorm rose, and drew his blade, and gave a stern remainder of the Oath he'd sworn, naming the Silmarili as the rightful heritage of your House. And as I have heard, there was movement among his followers, silent glares and hands upon sword-hilts, for his powerful words made Beren's Quest seem not only bereft of reason but unwarranted. Then Lord Curufin spoke, and his words were much softer. He voiced his fear for the King and his kinsmen being captured, dragged on to the mines of Angband, and all secrets of the Ñoldor drained from them by horrible torment. And he spoke of death and ruin, of cruel flames invading the halls of Nargothrond. That prospect planted a great fear in every heart, and no-one wanted to follow their rightful King. Your brothers, Lord Warden, have most cruelly betrayed your cousin; for even after King Finrod had departed with Beren and those few faithful followers he had left, they searched to undermine the power of Orodreth, wishing to seize it for themselves."

"Now _that_ is some lunatic phantasm of you Moriquendi!" Maedhros sprang from his seat. "And a grievous insult!"

"My Lord, please," Tyelcano said, his voice calm and smooth. "Let him speak. You may still have to accept that he has proof to justify what he's saying."

 _"That is impossible,"_ Maedhros said icily. "They are my brothers - mine own blood..."

"To steal a Silmaril from the Iron Crown was also impossible, my lord, until the moment it happened. Let him speak!"

Feredir took a deep breath, and waited several seconds, as if to ponder whether Maedhros was planning to behead him now, or only later.

"...and it happened thus, Lord Warden," he said at length, visibly bracing himself, "that the City of Nargothrond had been overwhelmed by turmoil and great fear. For the rule of Orodreth was faint and feeble, and your lord brothers were still supported by their numerous followers. The borders were fortified with great care, and my King sent me to inquire about Beren's dwelling in King Finrod's halls. And that is how I went there, and saw many unfortunate events with mine own eyes. I am aware, Lord Warden, that you are a knight of great renown, and a good and considerate leader of your people; and it must put you to great shame, it must truly perturb you to learn the truth about your - certainly most beloved - brothers' intentions. But since you asked for the truth, I shall provide it. I was there, my Lord, and I saw what happened."

Maedhros took a deep, ragged breath, and cast his burning eyes upon the messenger. His face was grim, expressionless, and he gave a slow nod.

"I have to know what happened."

Feredir returned his nod gravely, almost ceremonially.

"One morning, your lord brothers rode out to the Taleth Dirnen to hunt, and took their hounds with them. And lo! When they returned, the Lord Celegorm was carrying no game but the beloved Princess Lúthien upon his stallion; she ran away from her father's halls in despair, and was glad when chanced upon two great Lords of the Noldor who promised her aid in her hour of need. And I ran to the princess and bowed before her, and kissed her fingers, so great was my joy upon seeing her alive and unscathed. For a short moment, all my doubt and repugnance towards your lord brothers was forgotten, for I thought they would now return Princess Lúthien to her father's Halls; but I misjudged. For immediately I was cast away from the princess, and your lord brothers locked her up, and sent me back to my King with word that Lord Celegorm wished to take her as wife, for he fell in love with her; and they would not return the princess home until the request would be granted. And since their followers were loud and many, their prevalency upon people's hearts full and triumphant, Lord Orodreth could do nothing to lessen the harm their devious ways caused."

"So it happened that Princess Lúthien was imprisoned in Nargothrond. I was then away for a while, for many leagues lie between the city and my King's halls. King Thingol was both enraged and greatly saddened when he heard of Lord Celegorm's request; and still there were voices, small voices within our realm that said _"better his groom be a Lord of Ñoldor than Beren, a mortal Man"._ But the King did not listen to such counsel, and sent me back with a last grave warning, and a small troop of soldiers to reclaim the princess. If necessary, the King had said, than he would go to war to have her back; but he was greatly saddened by the prospect, since that meant another Kinslaying, and he wanted to avoid that by all means."

"What happened later, my lord, was only recounted me by others. Bards sing that Lord Beren, King Finrod and their escort have been imprisoned in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the once so proud fortress of your kinsmen in the West; and Sauron, the Enemy's most fearsome servant questioned and tormented them. Your cousin, my lord, was lacerated by a terrible werewolf, so it is said; its claws and teeth were crueler than steel and iron, and yet the King Finrod managed to kill it with his bare hands, though died as well. But the Princess Lúthien came just in time, upon a mighty Hound, and chased Sauron away and broke the doors of his prison, setting his thralls free. Many who once were prisoners had returned to Nargothrond, and the turmoil thus deepened; for people complained that lo! an Elf-maid had dared to accomplish deeds the mighty Sons of Fëanor have not. And in that hour, when people saw no gladness on Lord Celegorm's face as he heard that his so-termed _lover_ was safe and whole, they understood that everything he and his brother did were cold, well-oiled machinations to seize power and the kingship of Nargothrond. Then they saw how your lord brothers laboured against Lord Orodreth whenever he tried to maintain order, to regain some manner of stability in the city. Then they saw where their loyalities should lie. Then they saw that your lords brothers cared for nothing and no one, save their Oath and their own power or well-being. Then people were enraged, roused against the ones they followed for so long, and they wanted to have their blood spilled. Blades were drawn, curses were shouted, the shadow of Evil descended upon the city."

"And that was when I and my escort came back to the city. I saw your lord brothers, surrounded by raging Ñoldor who demanded their deaths. I saw fires lit in the mass, and daggers drawn, and I heard many shouting _"Death to cravens! Death to traitors!"._ Yet Lord Orodreth refused to have your brothers killed, since he knew that such a deed would only bring more evil upon all of us, Quendi. And he banished Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin from mighty Nargothrond, and promised there would never again be friendship between him and any Son of Fëanor. Thus your two brothers rode away, escorted by no more than Huan, the giant grey hound who followed Lord Celegorm's horse."

"Followed by no more?" Tyelcano's voice was unusually harsh. "How is that possible? Lord Curufin has a son... a daughter..."

"No one followed them, my lord," Feredir shook his head. "Perhaps for the best. Because later, as I have heard, they chanced upon Lord Beren and the Princess Lúthien and it came to the swords; and that affair is told to have had a nasty ending. But of that, I can give no true account; this is all I have heard and seen."

"Do you know nothing about Lord Curufin's children?" Tyelcano pressed.

"Only by hearing, my lord; and I know that Master Celebrimbor is well loved and held in a high esteem in the City of Nargothrond. But I never met him, nor did I meet the daughter of the Lord. I have no tidings of them to give."

"Very well," Maedhros said suddenly. Tyelcano looked at him, but saw nothing in his eyes.

"Very well," his lord repeated. "I feel I am beginning to understand things."

"Are you, Lord Warden?" Feredir sighed sadly. "As for my humble self, I am beginning to feel that all kinds of understanding fail me at once; and I cannot get a grasp on what is happening any more."

"I believe, Feredir of the Woods, that 'tis past time you handed me the letter of your King. That may answer a few questions."

"As you command," said the messenger, and extricated a thin scroll of parchment from amongst the inner foldings of his cloak. He placed it into Maedhros's welcoming palm, and sat sternly while the Lord Warden broke the seal with an agile snap of his fingers, and weighed an empty candle-holder upon the upper edge of the parchment to be able to unwrap it. Tyelcano knew better than to offer him any help, and he glimpsed a sparkle of amazed approval in Feredir's dark eyes.

Then Maedhros proceeded to read.

The letter was merely a few paragraphs long, Tyelcano could see it from the corner of his eye. The handwriting was clean, neat, the letters small; the rigorous, completely straight lines of runes spoke of collectedness, and unrelenting precisity. Only King Thingol's ceremonious signature stood out from the soldierly systematism that was his message.

 _The letter is short,_ Tyelcano decided. And yet his Lord Maedhros sat above it for what seemed like countless hours, his fingers motionless, his expression frozen, as if Time itself had stopped and no happenings of Elven lands and kingdoms mattered any more.

And then, at last, Maedhros moved. He stretched his shoulders slightly, leaned back in his chair, and put the candle-holder aside so the parchment could wrap itself again on the desk.

And he smiled.

(His smile was only slightly less terrifying, though, than his previous wrath).

"Feredir of the Woods," he said, "I thank you for all the tidings you brought me, and do not hold grudge against me if my words have sometimes wandered past the borders of being kind or even courteous. You have done me a great service, and for that I am thankful. You may depart immediately if you so desire, but you are very welcome to spend here a few days as a guest of my household, and regain your strength."

"I thank you, my lord," Feredir bowed. "Do you wish to respond to my King's letter?"

Tyelcano was suddenly aware of Maedhros's eyes upon him. Questioningly, he held his lord's gaze, and his hand was in the verge of leaning out to take Thingol's letter from the table, but he already saw the shades of resolution in his lord's grey orbs. His decision was already made, and without the Counsellor's consent; but Maedhros had the habit of dealing with messengers that way. Why was Tyelcano suddenly so uneasy about the situation, then?

"Tell your King that I might consider his offer," said Lord Maedhros. "I shall send him messengers in a year. Tell him to open his vast treasuries and hand the Silmaril to my envoys. Tell him to give back what is mine and my brothers' - and _then_ the two of us may converse about friendship, justice and good will. I have spoken."

"Indeed you have, Lord Warden," said Feredir, now openly terrified of the silver light that was burning in Maedhros's eyes. "I shall bring your word to my King. And I thank you once more for your hospitality."

A servant opened the door before him, and he left the room in haste.

 

§ ~ § ~ §

 

"Come here, Lord Counsellor," Maedhros said when only the pair of them remained in the room. Anor was now shining bright outside the windows, draping the lord's desk in shimmering golden. "Come, and sit with me. I need you to have a look at this letter."

"You seem to have made your decision easily enough without my insight, lord," said Tyelcano, unable to hide his irritation. The next moment he felt foolish, slightly fearing his lord's wrath, but Maedhros only sighed in frustration.

"I did what was right; but it pained me horribly, and I wanted to get over it." His lord drew a deep breath. "Please, read it."

Thunderstruck upon hearing _please,_ Tyelcano sprang forth and took the letter. Disbelievingly, hesitantly, he read.

 

_To Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East,_

_Elu Thingol, Lord of the Sindar, King of Doriath and Protector of the Woodland Realm sends his kind regards_

 

_Your lordship,_

 

_I turn to thee in an hour of dire need, for my heart is anxious. The shadow of the Enemy grows, and of late, it seems to have winded its way through the borders of our realms. 'Tis with great sorrow and concern that I think of the heavy losses your kinsmen have suffered of late._

_I inform you with discontentment that your two brothers, lords Celegorm and Curufin have kidnapped my daughter by pretending to save her, and refused to return her home unless I grant Lord Celegorm her hand. I did not count on any irreverence of that sort from the proud Ñoldor, and by the laws and customs of our realm, I must thusly deny any future request for an union between our Houses._

_Your lord brothers shall have to stand trial if they ever happen to cross the borders of my kingdom. In such a case, they shall be treated with care and granted fair judgement, as would any other who should stand by the throne of the Woodland King._

_Lord Maedhros, you are a proud, noble warrior and a wise leader of your people. In times as perilous as these, you could ill afford to gain yet another enemy; and me and my people are weary of shadows, enemies and confinedness. Should you do justice against the captors of my daughter, I offer you my friendship, my good will and such help I shall be able to give in the hour of dire need._

 

_With kind regards for you, your brother Lord Maglor and all your vigilant people in the East,_

 

_King Elu Thingol_

 

_Written on the last day of Nínui, in the Halls of Menegroth ; to be delivered until the ides of Víressë_

 

The room seemed to suddenly grow cold. Tyelcano clutched the parchment in his right hand, raising his head to meet his lord's eyes.

"To do justice? Do you have any idea, my Lord, what that means...?"

"I exactly know what that means, Lord Counsellor, or I would not have been so swift to wager my own brothers' lives and freedom upon my choice." Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment, the stern mask of the Lord Warden slipping from his mien, giving place to a weary, embittered Elf. "Yet by the Valar, my brothers indeed deserve some means of punishment for what they've done to Artaresto and Findaráto. Kind, gentle Findaráto..."

The grief that oozed into his lord's voice through unshed tears was so great Tyelcano had to fight the need to embrace him. To do so would have been highly inappropriate indeed, and it would have only made his lord uncomfortable, he knew. The Counsellor's commiseration was reduced to a feather touch on his lord's flexing shoulders, then a hesitating caress on a deep auburn tress of hair that winded its way through Maedhros's forehead.

"There are so many unanswered questions about all these deeds and happenings, my lord," the Counsellor whispered. "What happened to Lord Carnistir's slaughtered scouts...? What happened to Tyelperinquar and Erenis...? So many riddles... so many unlikely coincidences..."

"All is veiled by a shadow of Moringotto," Maedhros said. "This is his doing. I know his malice when I see it... Thingol should not have wished for the Silmarili; behold the great peril it brought upon his head! And we, Counsellor, are bound to wrestle with such puffs of Shadow all along our path. We must have the Jewels back, for so we have sworn. Many shall call Findaráto a fool for keeping his Oath; yet I feel no more than respect and sympathy when I think of him. But what horror I feel now is something new, something that I have never known before. What dark malice, what deadly curse of Moringotto could worm its way _into my own brothers' hearts...?_ I have to find them, I have to hear what they have to say. I shall have no rest until I don't know what happened."

"You know now what happened, lord," said Tyelcano cautiously.

"I want to hear it from them. There should exist some kind of justice, some means of explanation. If Morgoth is now corrupting the very hearts of Elves..." Maedhros shook his head. "I have seen that happening before. I know how it is done; and I also know that it can be done without torment. Yet sometimes... rarely... thralls are released, and sent back to their own people to bear testimony of the power of Moringotto, the extent of his rancour. Their only wish is to break the mental chains Moringotto had cast upon them, and they are oft delving in sweet illusions of doing so, finally convinced that they had triumphed over the willpower of the Enemy. And yet their every word, every thought, every motion is still driven by a greater power, a nebulous Shadow that lurks in their eyes; and they are no longer free. They are the greatest danger I have ever met; and if my brothers were by any means exposed to such danger, 'tis my duty to drive the gloom of the Darkness out of their hearts."

"Is such a thing possible, my lord?" Tyelcano asked quietly.

For a long while, Maedhros said nothing; but then he raised his bright, fearsome eyes from his lap to meet the Counsellor's ruminative gaze.

"One day, Tyelco," he said in the most casual speech mode of their language, voice suddenly gentle, the fire-storm of his eyes reduced to two silver, benevolent stars, "I shall tell you a nice bedtime story about the shackles Moringotto had hammered on my wrists. But before that moment comes, we still have a lot to do. Now go; I have to clean my head. My thoughts are racing."

"What of your letter for King Findekáno, my lord?" Tyelcano asked dutifully, trying to dismiss the mental image of his freshly rescued lord from his mind.

Maedhros laughed grimly. "We shall discuss it later. Enough of letters for today."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N  
> Feredir is an OC, his name means 'Hunter' in Sindarin.
> 
> Nínui stands for 'February' in Sindarin.
> 
> "Artaresto' is Quenya for Orodreth, and "Findaráto" is still Quenya for Finrod.
> 
> Excerpt from The Silmarillion, Chapter XIX, 'Of Beren and Lúthien': "But Thingol learned that Lúthien had journeyed far from Doriath, for messages came secretly from Celegorm, as has been told, saying that Felagund was dead, and Beren was dead, but Lúthien was in Nargothrond, and that Celegorm would wed her. Then Thingol was wrathful, and he sent forth spies, thinking to make war upon Nargothrond; and thus he learned that Lúthien was again fled, and that Celegorm and Curufin were driven from Nargothrond. Then his counsel was in doubt, for he had not the strength to assail the seven sons of Fëanor; but he sent messengers to Himring to summon their aid in seeking for Lúthien (...). But in the north of his realm his messengers met with a peril sudden and unlooked for: the onslaught of Carcharoth, the Wolf of Angband. (...)Alone of the messengers Mablung, chief captain of the King, escaped, and he brought the dread tidings to Thingol." - Thusly I have assumed that in the end, no messenger came to the Himring to inform Maedhros about the happenings and ask for his aid.
> 
> As much as I adore Celegorm and Curufin, I intend to show to full extent what they had done, and what consequences did that have upon #1 their personal life and #2 The reputation of their House. Which means times are about to get rough for them... (I think this would be the convenient place to assure everyone that Curufin's will be one of the main viewpoints in this story).


	7. Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was extremely hard to write. Please be gentle with me.
> 
> You may find a few new 'The Seven Gates' - related posts on my new blog: http://ten-summoners-fails.tumblr.com/tagged/tsg ("new" as of the 1st of August, 2016). Said posts include a photoshoot and new fanarts of Maedhros and Curufin.
> 
> Also, this is the first appearance of Erenis, Curufin's daughter. * nervous smile *
> 
> The usage of Quenya names is an indispensable add-on to Curufin's POV. Sorry 'bout it.

_"We shall not lay hands upon them!" Artaresto said, his hands tightened into fists, his clear voice rising above the raging mass, above lances and swords and daggers, above the mingling mist of hot breaths seething with vengeance and hatred. "We shall not! For despite their malice and treachery they are still our kin. Have your forgotten the Curse of Mandos? Such a monstrosity would bind it more closely upon us all. I will not have the blood of my kin spilled within my walls, nor anywhere else! Let them go. But bread and shelter I shall grant them no more within my realm and there will be little love between Nargothrond and the Sons of Feanor thereafter: this I swear. You have seen me and heard my words."_

_"Let it be so!" Tyelkormo said, and laughed; and he, Curufinwë... he said nothing._

_He stood there, thunder in his eyes, hatred in his guts, and smiled._

_Let it be so._

_When he went to gather his belongings, he saw Tyelperinquar standing in the shadows, watching him, a strange light in his eyes. Fair young Erenis stood by his side; she was holding his hand, as if that was the last anchor to attach her to reality. Curufinwë paid no heed to his children, and astricted the straps on his bundle._

_Everything was in order._

_(No, in fact, nothing was in order, but the illusion of precisity and collectedness would be much needed on his journey north, Curufinwë knew)._

_"What are you staring at?" He suddenly turned, seeing his son and daughter frozen to the same spot. His voice was far more harsh and muddy than he would have liked. "Move! We need to get to a safe distance from the city until nightfall - the mercy of good Lord Artaresto might not prove so longevous as he claims."_

_There was a short silence. And then..._

_"I am not going with you, Atar," said Tyelperinquar._

_Curufinwë's hands froze above his bundle. "You were saying...?"_

_"I am not going with you," Tyelperinquar repeated patiently. "I'm staying here. I came to love Nargothrond and its people, and I wish to partake your journeys no longer."_

_"And nor do I," Erenis said, her voice like iron._

_Curufinwë did not allow himself to feel anything. Yet._

_"Now-now," he susurrated with an amount of scorn and malevolence he did not know he had in his heart, "look at you, bright young lads! Putting your feet down, are you? And tell me, why would pious old Artaresto let you stay here, offsprings of traitors and kinslayers?"_

_"He gave us his leave because we are held in honor for who we are, and not for who you should have been," Tyelperinquar said, without the slightest sparkle of fear or remorse in his eyes. "And because we do not wish to stoop so low as you did, Father. We did not swear your Oath, and we are not your servants. 'Tis pity enough that our paths should fall asunder in such a bitter way."_

_"It is," Curufinwë said. "So young Lord Tyelpë is allowed to stay, for his talent is much needed in the fair city of Nargothrond, and Artaresto could ill afford to lose such crafty hands. Lord Tyelpë now feels powerful enough to discard his father. That much is clear. But what would Artaresto gain with the presence of Lady Erenis?" Curufinwë laughed. "Lady Erenis who cannot even lift a hammer or shoe a horse, ungifted as she is? Surely, my sweet daughter, you have nothing to offer Lord Artaresto - or am I wrong? Ah, perhaps you can give your hand and pledge your life to some lowly lord of his household, and let him harness the renown your fathers' deeds have earned you. Is that so?"_

_He swallowed the bitter taste of guilt when he saw the confusion, the hurt and unshed tears in her daughter's eyes; but then something strange and perhaps fearsome happened: the Lady Erenis rose, her back straight, her hands tightened into fists and she eyed him, brave, unbroken._

_"If you think so little of me, Lord Curufinwë," she said icily, "I am afraid I fail to understand why would you mind if I stayed here. Useless Lady Erenis could not even light you a fire on your journey to the Hells of Moringotto, could she? If you think you are above the laws of the Eldar and the mercy of the Valar, if you think that you reach beyond the Circles of the World, then take another wife, sire children who match your needs! Fare well!"_

_She slammed the door behind her; and unconsciously, Curufinwë raised his hand as if he could have hoped to stop her._

_"Fell and fey are you become, Atar," Tyelperinquar said, and Curufinwë's eyes widened at such boldness. "We do not wish to share your devious ways, as I have said. Fare well, and look for us no more! Forget the children you treated like ustensils and livestock for all your years in Nargothrond. I still hope against hope that you shall find the Father we have lost before the Sea rises and the World changes. Then we may speak again."_

 

§ ~ § ~ §

 

** The March of Maedhros, FA 467, the first day of Víress ë **

 

The roots were pale, less in width than his thumb, grungy with dirt and small balls of sour-smelling earth. It took Curufinwë a good hour's walk to steal down a gentle slope in search of them, and by the time he found anything edible, the mud of yestereve's rain reached up his sleeves.

A year ago, he would have been disgusted by his worn-out state: weather tattered his cloak, filth scuffed his boots and the better part of his garments were either torn, shredded rags or serving as bandages to cover the wounds he'd had on the road. Life out in the wilderness was hard, and despite his years of hunting in the woods, despite his grace and agility, despite his tireless nature, he, Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro was as much at the mercy of good fortune and nature's favour as any other soul.

Nature itself was perhaps the only thing that would show any means of favor towards him, Curufinwë thought grimly as he tightened his grip on his mockery of a prey, and turned his long strides uphill again. The roots were presumably the only nourishment he could hope for until he would come upon an abandoned settlement, a hastily left camp, a corpse, or any other possible source of usable arrows. Devoid of steel and too wary to light even the smallest of flames, Curufinwë could not hope to make any arrowheads himself.

He counted two hundred and fifty steps as he made his descent amongst dogwood and burberry bushes; at the bottom of the valley he hesitated a little, and picked some berries off a slim buckthorn. Their taste would soon turn sour, he knew, and their effect was less than pleasant but if something, _anything_ went wrong, if he and his brother suddenly needed to wash some kind of poison or disease out of their bodies, the wicked berries could prove more than useful.  The dark, grim woodlands of what had once been Dorthonion - where they would perhaps soon be heading to - were not likely to grow such gems for tired, ragged wanderers.

 _Fifteen pair of roots, a pocket full of rose-hips, another pocket full of mushrooms and a handful of berries,_ Curufinwë counted. It was little enough, but still more than nothing.

He reached a wide meadow, crowned with a carpet of tiny white flowers. The green hills of Himlad were paled by remaining puffs of the morning fog, the still sleeping landscape interrupted only once in a while by the glide of thrushes and a lone magpie, buzzing about their business back and forth the length of the clearing. Far above and further ahead, Curufinwë could see the ascending Sun in a halo of pinkish-yellow clouds, its beauty and warmth clashing against the suffocating, foul air above the blackened wastelands of Anfauglith. Even there, Anor's gleam was glorious and undismayed.

And further still... no, Curufinwë would not think about that. He could not permit himself to start brooding on the Enemy's threat and malevolence _now;_ that would only hand his fëa over to despair.

 _I cannot afford that,_ he repeated relentlessly to himself. _I am a hunter of the woods, an outlaw, a wanderer. All I have is the present: the now; and for me, there is no 'will be': there is only 'if'._

That was the way Curufinwë lived since the moment his children had turned their backs on him. No tears or smiles allowed; no petty emotions to disturb his mind. Not even a flicker of pride. He had to go on, to survive, to live another day and yet another. He did not know why. There was no such thing as why: he swallowed, he breathed, he placed one leg in front of another as he strode, following his brother. He lived on, he ate, drank and slept only because he was not familiar with any other means of existence. This state of silence and denial could not go on for ever, he knew; but while he walked the woods, meadows, hills and rivers, while he set his mind on his next quest of hunting down a hart or finding a new method to catch fish and _nothing else,_ even the endless torment of his Oath seemed more bearable.

He could almost align one engagement to the other. He needed to eat so one day, he could fulfill his Oath. He needed to march "just another mile", then "just another", for eventually, that would bring him closer to his final destination. And - most of all -, Curufinwë now excelled at lying to himself: each day after the other, he promised that he would brace himself at last, and head to his eldest brother's castle, asking for his aid, admitting his deeds, seeking help, acceptance and understanding.

And yet he did not. There was still something in the depths of his soul, some remnant of his aching pride that restrained him, that wanted to flee more badly to Dorthonion with each passing day.

And then, of course, there was Tyelkormo. Tyelkormo, a shell, a shadow of his former self. Hopeless, loveless, horseless, Huan-less Tyelkormo.

Another thing that made Curufinwë go on was that he could not bear to see his brother in such a state he sank in; he had to drag Tyelkormo with him further and further on the road. It was almost more than he could bear - he and his brother barely talked, their communication reduced to the expression of hunger, thirst, cold and fatigue; or now and then a sign of game in the woods. Perhaps that was the worst of it all: lack of communication. Lack of socialisation. The maddening silence of the wildlands (either that, or the pursuing bands of Orcs, roaming all over Beleriand). It was not getting any better - it was getting worse, and swiftly.

Curufinwë followed the narrowing edge of the meadow, now uphill again. He and his brother had made camp on a wide plain, in a sea of green grass, deepened and thickened by rainfalls of late. In the approximate middle of the verdure, a small clustering of trees stood rich and proud against the pale blue sky: it was amongst these trees that Tyelkormo and Curufinwë had chose to settle for the day, and perhaps another. Their beds of moss and fallen leaves were more welcoming than most of the resting places they had encountered on their recent journey. Now that they had no horses, no companions and not enough peace to light a fire, a couple of unburdened trees were the best shelter they could hope for. In fact, if news in Beleriand travelled as fast as fair Lúthien upon Huan the Hound, it might as well prove the best they would find in all their days left in Endórë...

On the edge of the forest belt that separated the blossoming meadow and the great green plain, Curufinwë halted, uneasiness squeezing his guts. Something was not right; the earth whispered the news he had been afraid of ever since they've crossed the southern borders of their brother's lands, which, in default of men, were scarcely watched since the Bargollach.

Curufinwë knelt, and placed his left ear upon the ground, only to hear the exact thing he'd been trying to avoid for such a long time. It echoed uncertainly behind the neverending lament of a soil once drenched with blood; it was faint and distant, but Curufinwë, who'd spent half his life in Beleriand with hunting and travelling could not mistake it for anything else.

A troop of riders was closing up, and in great haste. Not that Curufinwë was surprised; Himlad's hills were leached with rain, and yesterday's few hours of sunlight have surely been insufficient to dry all the mud. All it took was a lone footprint, forgotten and left in the mud.

They have been discovered; and the hunters became the hunted.

 

§ ~ § ~ §

 

When Curufinwë reached the shelter embraced by trees, he was surprised to find Tyelkormo wide awake, and on his feet. His brother seemed to be in the process of gathering his affairs, preparing to hit the road. It was relieving to find the sparkle of life and eager interest once again lit in his eyes.

"Have you heard what the earth sings?" Tyelkormo immediately turned to his brother when he arrived; and despite his hunger and uneasiness, despite his weariness, despite _everything,_ Curufinwë had to smile at the poetic expression, doubtlessly picked up from none less than mighty Oromë. Also, this was perhaps the longest sentence his brother had spoken to him in the last three days.

"We shall soon be found, if we are not quick. A troop of riders, if I am not mistaken."

"A troop of riders, aye. But there is no glory in the sound of their hoofs, nor do my ears feel the surety of the hunter who caught the smell of game. They are fleeing, Curvo, just like you and I. And terror is in their heels. Orcs are growing bold in these mountains; my heart tells me they were outnumbered, and forced to retire."

"Maitimo's scouts fleeing from those filthy beasts?" Curufinwë shook his head. "Never!"

"The days of the Siege are gone, little brother," Tyelkormo stood, and suddenly, he seemed to regain part of his former grace and vibrating strength. "Moringotto won the last battle, and our forces are scattered. More and more Orcs roam in these lands, and yes, we _are_ outnumbered. My very heart wavers at the thought that servants of the Enemy might have managed to break inside these borders, but apparently they did, and that means we are in even greater peril than the fleeing scouts. How many weapons exactly do we have?"

"Your bow and three arrows," Curufinwë counted, "your knife, and a broken lance."

"And you, Curvo?"

"None."

"Which means?"

"Which means that we have to run for our lives, and now!" Curufinwë snapped. "I hate the thought of it; but every minute of waiting and pondering lets the Orcs reach further!"

Even as he uttered the sentence, he knew he spoke in vain. Where would they run? To the North, into the open arms of the Enemy? To the wild East, where the Shadow still lingered? To the South, where their current peril was coming from? Perhaps to the West, among open plains and grey-green wastelands, revealed to all eyes within leagues?

There was nowhere to run; and a circle of trees was no place to hide. All they could do was stay, and face whatever may come, hoping that their brother's scouts were about to gain the upper hand.

"Here," said Tyelkormo with a small smile, "have my knife. 'Tis better than nothing."

 

§ ~ § ~ §

 

To Curufinwë's chagrin, Anor hid his golden face behind a thick veil of clouds within an hour. Cumbrous silence fell on the hills around them; the birds and beasts were now silent, and the promise of rain hung heavily in the air. Unwilling to delay the inevitable, the brothers gathered their poor belongings and even poorer provisions together, and creeped watchfully up the nearest hillside.

Mud, dew and filthy gravel was filtering into Curufinwë's left boot across some new hole as he climbed the last few rocks, following his brother. Now it was Tyelkormo who persisted, who went on mercilessly, who dragged him along. When they reached the top, Curufinwë saw that his brother's instincts spoke well: the scranky juniper bushes that covered the southern side of the hill-ledge were enough to hide them from any Orc who would seek them. Luckily, the wind flew to their faces, which meant that their foes were not even likely to catch their scent; and even if they were noticed by some mischance, the nearby rocks provided steady shelter, and an easy place to shoot from.

If they had more arrows than just three, that is.

The faint but steady _thud_ of feet was growing closer; Curufinwë had to restrain from casting himself onto the ground every other minute and listening with bated breath. Whatever was coming, he was no longer in charge of the events; he had to endure what the Powers have arranged for the day.

Soon, the brothers could hear the noise of approaching battle. Horses were trotting, neighing, snorting, their bodies falling heavily on the ground when they were shot or stuck. Swift, agile feet were hitting the ground, again and again, as the scouts were losing terrain. The dreadful singing of blades was now distinguishable, and every other minute, Curufinwë could hear screams of pain that came from their own people. The low roar of Orcs and the bubbling of their black blood was heard much less often than he would have liked; and he realised with growing dread that their kinsmen out there were losing the battle, and swiftly.

Tyelkormo lay amongst the bushes on his stomach, and let his head fall on the ground. Curufinwë could not decide if he was cold, weeping, or his shoulders were simply shaking with rage. His own blood was boiling as well; but what could they do? If they wasted their last three arrows now, what were they about to eat next day? They could not live on turnips for ever. And if they were to join the fight... what would they use as a weapon? Tyelkormo's lone knife? The splinters of his broken lance? Their nails and teeth?

"Angrist, my friend, I miss you most grievously," Curufinwë lamented, soundlessly damning the day their paths crossed with fair Lúthien; then the day King Thingol had voiced his want of their heritage.

_So many evil could have been avoided that day. Did he not know that the Silmarils were ours, only ours, and we shall have to kill anyone who is after it? What right has he, the King of the Moriquendi, to even behold any of our treasures?!_

_But King Thingol is cunning and wary, far more attentive than your Father was, and your Grandfather before him,_ part of Curufinwë's mind insisted as the battle cries were creeping closer, ever closer. _Did he not behold the light of Aman as Finwë did? Did he not walk among the Valar, did he not stand before Manwë as well? Yet he was clever, he was steady enough to say no and stay where he belonged, stay in the ancient lands of the Quendi. The Valar showed your fathers their crafts and lore, yes, but held their minds in chains. Your Father broke those chains, but he did not have the strength to bring freedom to the Ñoldor. Even he, even your Father failed. Yet how could one bring freedom who was a thrall in all his life?_

Curufinwë stood, his tall figure clearly visible among the bushes, barely aware of his own hard shaking. Where were these thoughts coming from? To say that the Valar held the Quendi in chains would have been equal to saying that Moringotto's deeds were righteous, and he would have deserved to rule Aman instead of Manwë and Varda. And Moringotto... he was the deadliest enemy, the most bitter foe, his eyes the blackest pits of malice Curufinwë had ever seen, or heard of. He could not say that. No, he simply _could not say that._

But what was wrong with keeping an Oath? Was there no redemption after Alqualondë, that terrible night on the shores that still made his skin crawl? Would he ever find rest, or would any of his brothers?

"Curvo!" Tyelkormo's voice slipped unpleasantly into his consciousness. "Back down! They're going to see you!"

His hands tightened into fists.

_"Curvo! The first of the filth is less than fifty yards away!"_

Curufinwë was dragged down amongst the ticket, something hot and salty stinging his eyes.

"I am not evil, Tyelko," he breathed wretchedly. "I am not. Please tell me I am not."

"Is that the last thing you want to hear before we die?" His brother said almost cheerfully. "I pray you ask Námo instead. I know you enough to tell what a wicked little gnome you are."

His voice was thick with scorn and denial, and Curufinwë knew that Tyelkormo had not given up: not yet. There was still some forgotten, loose string of hope they could cling to, and Curufinwë chose to cling to it as well, grabbing it fiercely with the last remnants of his willpower.

His tears tasted bitter as he turned upon his back, grabbed Tyelkormo's dagger in his belt, and listened.

The uproar of Orcs was almost unbearable, and Curufinwë could hear the thud of a heavy body on the ground, along with the dolorous clattering of armor and a sharp cling of a sword, knocked out from the hand that had wielded it.

A sharp voice barked something Curufinwë could not understand, then they could hear the sound of fists and iron-clad boots, kicking and banging into soft flesh. This could mean only one thing: the Orcs have triumphed entirely, and now they were about to enjoy the company of those few unhappy soldiers who were still alive, and ideal victims to torture.

Tyelkormo crawled forward a few inches, his keen eyes searching a free way among the scrub.

"Ten...," he breathed, "fifteen... twenty... thirty..."

Curufinwë swallowed. He'd hoped for twenty or less.

"...forty-five, Curvo. They must have been numerous, a hundred or more. I see plenty of carcasses, and more black blood than red."

"Do we have any chance to flee?" Curufinwë whispered.

"Perhaps, if they are occupied enough with their prisoners. Whatever we do, we have to do it quickly. I say we take the nearest path south, and run straight to the Himring. Our duty is to help any of our brothers' men the best way we can, and unarmed as we are, the only way we can offer any kind of help is by warning Maitimo as fast as possible."

Curufinwë pondered that for a second. He fervently hated the thought of abandoning any of their kinsmen to the Orcs' mercy, but another crack on the shield of his pride was definitely worth his, and a few others' life. Not even his Atar, or his uncle Ñolofinwë would have been able to face forty Orcs at the same time, armed with no more than a small hunting knife. There was no point in playing the hero and throwing their lives away: there was still hope for their escape, hope for getting aid. It was their duty to try it; and said duty was to be done immediately.

His reluctance to enter Himring, his self-pity, all those dark broodings on the Valar and the lack of their mercy - everything was forgotten at once as Curufinwë began his slow, wary descent from the hill, followed closely by Tyelkormo.

At the other side of the tumult of earth and rock, the Orcs were revelling loudly in their prisoners. Curufinwë could hear the evil hiss of a whip every other second, and there were cries of pain and dismay, cries of sorrow, hatred and utter despair.

And one of the voices seemed - _familiar?_

A handful of gravel and small rocks crackled under Curufinwë's feet, and for the fraction of a heartbeat, he was on the verge of sliding downhill. He managed to grab hold of an overhanging on the wall of the cliff, his entire weight placed on his fingers. His arms were going numb, and he muttered a few colorful curses as Tyelkormo's familiar form appeared next to him, and pulled him onto more secure terrain.

"Watch out!" His brother breathed nervously into his ear. "We cannot fight with one hand if they see us."

"I pray you swallow this argument if we indeed make it to Maitimo," Curufinwë muttered under his breath. Tyelkormo said nothing, but there was a sparke of gallows humour in his eyes as his feet searched the next cove among the rocks.

They arrived to the critical point of their descent; they had to cross a spot of twenty yards long or so, where the veil of verdure would not hide them. Tyelkormo climbed forward, for his feet were ever the steadier. Curufinwë had to admit he was a fearsome sight, even covered in old rags, even with his longbow hanging uselessly from his shoulder. He followed in silence, wearier than ever before; and while his brother was searching for the safest route for their descent, Curufinwë kept his attention on their enemies below.

Even if his previous mistake had been noted, the Orcs gave no sign of it, so devoured they were by the pleasure of having captured four Elves at once. Three of the unfortunate were cruelly bound and made to stand in the uncomfortable proximity of a fire they lit, and the fourth one was thrown on the ground, and most viciously played with. The Elf had been deprived of his armor and he lay on the blood-soaked ground in no more than a thin shirt and a pair of tattered leggings. A broad-shouldered, fiercely strong Orc was standing above him, flinging his whip again and again above his head, terrible blows thundering upon the prisoner's back. The Orcs were shouting at him in their own hideous, guttural language; and Curufinwë did not have to understand their speech to recognise the insults.

One of the prisoners was tugging violently on his ropes, red wounds and bruises opening on his shoulders, arms and wrists. One of the smaller Orcs shouted something, and spat at him. The rest laughed, than the tortured Elf was turned on his back, and the whip lashed hungrily straight upon his face and chest. The prisoners shrieked among the cruel ropes, but the tall, lean creature on the ground endured the blow in silence and with dignity.

Another cruel snap, vibrating all along the prisoner's skin, another dreadful blow. Another kick on the purplish shoulders and hips. The Elf's head waned aside as he passed out, and a trail of bright blood sprang from his nose. It was about to drown him soon if he remained unconscious, Curufinwë knew.

Both he and Tyelkormo stared at the pale, lifeless face in silence. Suddenly, their duty was forgotten. Their errand was forgotten. Reality was forgotten.

Curufinwë felt sick. Terribly sick.

Then some terrified part of his awareness reminded him that he was staring into the haggard, barely recognisable face of Makalaurë.

"GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY BROTHER, YOU WITLESS SPAWN OF MORINGOTTO!" Tyelkormo bellowed. As he emerged from the verdure, entirely and wondrously enraged, Curufinwë thought he must have been as terrible to an Orc's eyes as a furious Vala in the fullness of his strength would be to some unlucky Elf.

His next thought was that they were about to commit a most grievous mistake. Tyelkormo was storming relentlessly downhill, his feet barely even touching the ground. One of their three precious arrows was already in his right hand, ready to touch the string. The Orc who had tormented their brother was truly and entirely doomed - but so were they.

_Unless..._

Curufinwë pulled his brother's hunting knife from its ragged scabbard and went on his own way. Thick roots and a slick carpet of fallen leaves were protesting soundlessly as he raced downhill, supporting himself here and there by grabbing hold of the dew-damped rocks.

He heard the hiss of an arrow flying through the air, and there was a cry of dismay as it hit target. As Curufinwë broke forth from amongst the trees, he saw from the corner of an eye that his brother was about to crash furiously in a black wall of fully armed Orcs; the whip of the torturer was in his hands now, lashing frightfully from one side to the other, reaching faces, arms, chests and legs alike.

Curufinwë's eyes watered at the impossible chance they've had: most of the archers were killed, their bows broken and trampled deep in the ground, their arrows lying around, scattered. Still, he had to break a handful of bows on his way towards the captives; and overcoming their initial shock, a dozen Orcs were now heading at him, grabbing their blades and gritting their teeth.

One against a dozen seemed considerably better than two against forty-five; but Curufinwë still felt the wave of weariness taking over him. He pulled a scimitar from the chest of a dead Elven scout, and slammed into the wall of enemies.

The first head fell down from its shoulders without protest, the mouth vomiting black blood. Curufinwë slammed the still twitching body into his next enemy's face, and cut deep into a leg, reaching one of the thick arteries on the inner side of the thigh. The limb opened with a loathsome smack, and Curufinwë was momentarily blinded by a fresh flow of blood that drank mercilessly into his skin and hair.

Someone grabbed him from behind, and from the rapidity and vehemency of the motion, they were most likely trying to break, or at least crack his spine. Cold dread ran along Curufinwë's veins as he remembered the tattered, chambered remnants of once fine armor underneath his rags. There was surely a way to cut them through... he was not safe, here as he was, surrounded by these smelly beasts. He had to get help.

Curufinwë jerked forward and slammed his fist into a swarthy face. His bones ached from the impact, but the Orc was knocked unconscious, and at the same time his left foot reached something soft and breakable; another one of his enemies must have fallen on the ground. And ahead...

Curufinwë gave a sharp cry as the first throat was sliced right in front of his eyes. One of the guardians of the camp had clearly intended to kill the captives before he could reach them. But he was unlucky - Curufinwë got there first.

_Did he?_

Curufinwë tugged frantically on the rope around the second Elf - the scimitar's edge was too thick to harmlessly pass under. He would need Tyelko's knife - where in the Valar's name was Tyelko's knife?! Could he truly be fool enough to drop their last piece of Elven weaponry...?

He kicked the Orc on his right furiously in the stomach, and watched over the gagged Elf with all the strength and vigilance of his shattered body. He could not allow him to be killed... he could not stand alone...

He was grabbed from behind and pulled to the ground, cruel steel biting into his side. Curufinwë spat all the swearing vocabulary of his own lofty speech at once, and rolled over, dragging a pair of unsuspecting feet with him. One of the smaller, younger (and smellier) Orcs fell upon him and Curufinwë rolled him around, his fingers tugging eagerly at the soft flesh in the middle of his throat, right into the hole of nerves, unprotected by nerves and collarbones. There was a horrible, sickening _crack,_ then the moist, tepid vacillation of inner bleeding under his hands, and the Orc started to twitch and shake violently. Curufinwë threw him on a dying archer, letting him drown in his own vomitus.

Swift as a shadow, he slipped back to the two remaining bound Elves, kicking and pulling another small Orc down from them. Clearly, the prisoners seemed not precious enough to fight for, which suggested that the raid had not been previously planned: these creatures were killing and torturing merely for their sport and amusement. That, at least, gave Curufinwë a little hope.

"Can you stand?" He mumbled nervously at one Elf. Dread and despair squeezed his stomach when he received no answer at all; and when he turned the body over and saw ragged entrails gushing forth from a wide wound, he turned his head and vomited. The wound on his side was now throbbing steadily, and his legs were shaking with the sort of weakness and nausea that comes with the heavy loss of blood.

"I can stand, my lord," came the croaky voice of the last Elf, the one he'd been previously protecting with his own body. "Please unbound me, and let me fight for you."

Curufinwë's inquiring right hand found Tyelkormo's dagger on the ground at last and he slid the blade under the Elf's ties, severing the cruel rope. When it gave way, the scout fell to his knees for a moment, but emerged quickly, wriggling his wrists to make the blood circulate. Curufinwë handed him the scimitar he'd been fighting with for the last few minutes, and pulled another, longer sword from the bowelled Elf's belt.

Their enemies were already upon them; but the forceful snaps of the Orc-whip behind Curufinwë's back told him that Tyelkormo was still on his feet, and more or less unscathed. With a fierce cry he sprang forward, and slammed into the chest of yet another Orc.

"HOW MANY STILL?" He yelled, and sliced yet another belly, broke yet another arm, stepped on yet another face. His tattered clothes were becoming damp with sweat, and heavy with the smell of blood and deranged earth.

"TWENTY-SOME SMELLY FILTH," Tyelkormo bellowed furiously, and the whip snapped again. Curufinwë allowed himself a quick glance on his brother. Tyelkormo stood tall and proud still, bloodstained lash in one hand, a small sword in the other. His arms and legs were dark and slippery with Orc-blood and entrails, and a fresh spring of his own blood ran down from his scalp. He was standing above the still unconscious Makalaurë, defending him with every move and breath.

The scout Curufinwë freed was swift, yet strong and agile; he was standing above a heap of dead Orcs, gritting his teeth at the ones remaining. Twenty-three was the exact number of their enemies; and for one silent, dreadful moment they seemed to turn against the three worn-out Elves as one and attack in one fierce onset.

 _If they try to do so, one of us shall surely die,_ Curufinwë knew. _Perhaps all of us._

The silence stretched for four or five seconds; every soul in the camp was motionless, every face grim, every muscle tense.

And then, all of a sudden, a little Orc pulled himself free from one of his companions' grip, and broke into a run. He disappeared amongst the thicket with a cry of fear and dismay. Another pursued, and yet another; and when more than half of the party was gone, the rest followed as one.

The prey was costly; and none of them seemed willing to pay the price.

 

§ ~ § ~ §

 

The three fighters stood frozen for several minutes; then Curufinwë shook himself, and fell onto his knees next to his brother.

"Kano," he whispered faintly. "Kano, do you hear me?"

The world was starting to twirl around him. It must have been the wound...

"My Lord," the scout stepped beside him and held him steadily. "You are swiftly losing blood. Please let me tend your wound as much I can."

"My brother comes first," Curufinwë insisted, and placed a weak hand on the side on Makalaurë's face. "He must have been terribly hurt..."

Tyelkormo knelt down as well, and checked Makalaurë's pulse and breathing. Both were slow and faint, but still within the borders of normal; it seemed that it was the stress and the level of physical pain that temporarily rendered their brother unconscious.

"He'll soon be awake," Tyelkormo announced what Curufinwë had already guessed. "And he'll be in worse pain than before. He won't be able to walk, but we have to move; and yet we cannot risk to move him. A true riddle. I wonder where the Orc-filth has gone."

"They are most likely hiding in some secure, dark spot until nightfall, to come and murder us beneath the veil of darkness," said the scout. "We must move both ourselves and Lord Makalaurë, my Lords, and swiftly. If you can still wield a weapon and watch over him, I shall run and warn the Lord Warden; I may reach the Himring within two hours if I am swift. I'll send you soldiers, provisions, healers, wine against the loss of blood and anything else you may need."

"A sharp mind," Curufinwë had to smile despite his growing alarmedness at the thought of being out in the wilderness with Orcs about, despite the searing pain in his body, despite everything that had happened and everything that was about to happen. "What is your name? I do not seem to know you."

"Antalossë, my lord. I joined the Lord Warden's army only three weeks ago. This was my first scouting..."

"Poor boy," Tyelkormo sighed, his eyes still on Makalaurë's face.

"Listen, lad," Curufinwë stretched his knees, "I shan't promise that scouting will get any better; but not many of your brothers-in-arms can tell that they have saved three of the Lord Warden's brothers at once from death or worse. I daresay that your scouting days are already over, for I shall gladly take you as a squire if you would agree."

The young Elf turned pink. "I... I would, my lord, and most gladly; that - that is a great honour indeed."

"Do not agree just yet, young Antalossë," Curufinwë said ruefully. "You may yet hear a few things about the one who wished to honour you so. Be swift and return soon!"

"I shall, my lords," Antalossë promised and broke into a swift, yet light run. Soon, he disappeared among the hills, and the earth drank in the sound of his slender feet.

"A bright young fellow," Curufinwë said. "Centered on solutions. He did not even bother to ask where we came from, showing up so suddenly. He reminds me of good old Counsellor Tyelco, in a way."

For a moment, Tyelkormo looked as though he was about to answer him; but suddenly Makalaurë stirred, and raised his calloused hands to hide his face. He seemed to think he was about to get beaten again.

"Shhh, Kano," Tyelkormo whispered and caressed their elder brother's face with a tenderness Curufinwë had almost forgotten he had in his large hands. "It is over. They're lying around in black puddles of blood and entrails. They died in terrible agony, I promise you. We'll soon burn them to the last Orc. 'Tis alright, brother."

Something akin with disgust flashed across Makalaurë's face, and Curufinwë laughed out scornfully.

"What a smooth way to cheer him up, Tyelko. I don't even remember the last time I had to say you were a rouge."

"Cur...vo," Makalaurë coughed, and the haze of pain and swoon was gone from his eyes. "Tyelko... what... how... when..."

"Too many questions," Tyelkormo managed a smile.

"Where are...," Makalaurë trembled. "My head hurts."

"That is no surprise, after everything you've endured," Curufinwë said. "Be at ease, brother. Young Antalossë is on his way to the Himring. He'll bring help with him... and Nelyo will be furious when he hears what happened! He'll come and hunt the Orc-filth himself. It shall be fun to watch."

He tried to sound cheerful, though his very heart trembled at the thought of facing Maitimo, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East, and his eldest brother. Makalaurë, however, seemed equally terrified of the prospect.

"Maitimo," he whispered, "I don't want... I have failed..."

"Failed?" Curufinwë put his arms around his brother. "What do you mean?"

"Everyone... died... the message... they took... I... I was not swift enough..."

"What message?"

"Enough, Curvo!" Tyelkormo said solemnly. "Kano is wounded, and lost too much blood. You upset him. Let him rest."

"We will talk later," Makalaurë said, his voice a little bit stronger. "It is... it is good to have you back. Even if it was very... very stupid of you... to run down a whole armed... troop of Orcs."

"That is what brothers are for, Kano," Tyelkormo smiled ruefully, and bent down to kiss the elder's cheek.

 


	8. A Day in the March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Long chapter, and maybe not what you expected. But yes, this is "Maedhros's reaction on C&C's actions, vol.1". And a bit of oneirocriticism. "MRoC&CA, vol.2" is coming next... and then we'll have a "Meanwhile in Gondolin"-block. Yay. Thank you for the increasing number of follows and reviews! I'm happy to see that people are interested in such an ignored period in canon.

**VIII. A Day in the March**

 

Tyelcano moaned with exhaustion when the fourth impact against rain-steeped soil shook his bones. His whole body shivering with the familiar stress-filled aftermath of fighting, the Counsellor rolled onto his side and checked his aching knees for any kind of injury. He found none, though his favorite trousers had suffered a cruel tearing; and yet when he was about to spring to his feet again, hot flames of pain bit into the flesh of his calves and he fell back, gritting his teeth and heroically swallowing a colorful curse.

Lord Maedhros seemed tall as a Vala as he towered above him, longsword still in his hand, his auburn tresses an unruly crown around his head.

"Did I hurt you?"

"I did not take care when I fell."

The lord furrowed slightly.

"That is unlike you, Counsellor. May I know the reason?"

Tyelcano pulled his legs up experimentally, and swallowed another angry hiss when the pain came back. It did not feel as bad as before, but he was fretful with himself nevertheless. How could he be so careless...? He should have watched his steps, perhaps even secured his ankles. The old riding boots he wore were starting to get loose.

"I had very little time to do so. You are terrible to fight when you're upset, lord; you still do not know your own strength. Your vigilance strays for one second and you send me flying through the meadow."

_"Upset?"_

That was the only word that seemed to reach Maedhros's mind. The lord's bright grey eyes slightly narrowed, and part of Tyelcano's mind wanted to give in to the alarmed urge of taking up his sword again. Yet he did not yield, and spoke with such frankness as his duty required, for the lord - as both his Atar and Haru before him - was known to loathe paralogism within his household.

"Ever since that messenger came this morn, you are not yourself, Lord Nelyo. First you send me off with the letter I wrote to the High King, saying that it can still wait; then you lock yourself up in your study for hours. And _then_ you suddenly come and take me out to the fields with yourself, beat me thoroughly to the ground four times; and still you seem buzzing with life and energy. My dearest Lord, what ails you so? What is done cannot be undone; and you told me yourself that any haste or foolhardiness could now easily deepen the pit we're sitting in."

Maedhros sheathed his sword, and settled on the grass next to the Counsellor, his back against a trunk.

"How strange," he mumbled, "I almost feel tired. Yet I could still run a few miles _._ "

"Try and lessen the burden on your mind instead," Tyelcano said gently. "It shall have to bear new weights soon enough, Lord Nelyo. 'Twould be wise to make them a little space."

A small smile rushed through his lord's solemn face, and Tyelcano wished it stayed there for ever.

It did not.

"Make this easier for me, if you can," Maedhros said at length. "Let us talk about that letter you wrote. It evasively asked Findekáno for tidings about Princess Lúthien, the Silmaril and Findaráto's fate, then inquired about his well-being, did it not?"

"As you commanded, my lord."

"Very well," Maedhros was staring at his own gloved palm. "I say, Tyelco, that we now know enough. It would not be wise to send that letter before my brothers are found and brought safely to my castle... then questioned. I believe they are heading here, but it may prove useful to look for them, do you think not?"

"I do indeed," Tyelcano stole a glance at his lord. "Do you still intend to make them stand trial?"

"I've been pondering it," Maedhros admitted. "Yet I'd better avoid humiliating them any further. The loss of Tyelpë, Erenis, all their followers and even faithful Huan at the same time must have been a terrible blow. Equally terrible to the deeds they've done, surely, but pride is a fragile shield, and when broken, it might easily rise as a phoenix of madness and destruction. I cannot allow any kind of strife or breach of peace within my walls; therefore the judgement must be done by me and only me. I am head of our House and Lord of these lands, and my word is law in the Himring. I do not see any other way."

"There will be talk," Tyelcano said. "And wondering."

"Restraining people from wondering is impossible. Some things cannot be helped; it falls to lords and kings to set all doubts at rest."

"Where reason is mute, authority must speak, my lord says," Tyelcano looked Maedhros boldly in the eye. "And he may as well be right. Yet to do such a deed, a lord must trust his own judgements. And if my lord does so, what drives him out to the wilderness, what haunts his days? Why do doubts and worries cloud his brows?"

Maedhros was silent.

"Your years and battles have earned you wisdom, my lord beloved. Whatever doom you lay upon your brothers, I shall bow before it and never go against your will; and neither shall anyone within your walls and your power. I shall say what I must, and you may hear my counsel, should you need it; but I trust you as deeply and hold you as dear as everyone else in the Himring. You have made grave decisions before: why flinch _now?"_

"Let us walk," Maedhros said. Lithe and slender like a deer, he stood and extended his hand towards Tyelcano. Swallowing his pride, the Counsellor accepted the offer and let himself be pulled upon his feet, paying close attention to the fading pain in his calves. He could feel the stinging aftermath of a throrough and vile cramp, and some uncomfortable knot in the delicate muscles, but he found that the capacities of his leg were mostly restored to normal. Only weariness remained.

Gracefully, his lord slid his left arm around his waist and they took the first steps. Maedhros's strides were long and smooth, and Tyelcano managed to place more and more weight on his still aching left leg. His lord's eyes followed his every motion, and to Tyelcano, who was as used to the intimidating, haunting glance of silvery orbs as one could get, the attention seemed more soothing than reproachful.

"Appose your leg somewhere," his lord said after a few minutes of walking. "Stretch it."

Tyelcano complied, his choice falling upon a waist-tall rock in front of a slender birch, probably a remnant of some construction or replacement of walls. Maedhros sank onto his knees next to him, and he drove out the pain from the Counsellor's leg with skilled fingers.

"Thank you, my lord," Tyelcano sighed in relief, but also amazement. "Your healing capacities astonish me."

"I would deepen them, Counsellor, and with pleasure; yet one must be sane to be able to heal," Maedhros laughed ruefully. "But you should indeed be more careful with your legs; one who is more attentive might get this sort of pain from trodding mine-shafts for a couple of days without any rest."

"As if sparring with your lordship would be any better," the Counsellor retorted. The wind blowing from the wastelands was fresh and it lifted his heart up. Maedhros laughed softly, his voice fading into the unwontedly gentle breeze.

"I was hoping to speak with you about a more private matter," he suddenly confessed. "Ask you, at first. That is why I tormented you with sparring: I was probably hoping it would get easier, or perhaps that some activity would draw out the stress from me. And now, you see, my blood is boiling with a tormenting eagerness to fight, and I find myself still more restless than before..."

"Let us then speak about that private matter, my lord," Tyelcano could not suppress the concern from his voice. "It is your... condition? Did _it_ happen again?"

"No; in fact, _it_ hasn't happened for a long time now," Maedhros said ruminatively. "I cannot remember the last time I lost control of _it_. No, Tyelco; I wanted to speak of my dreams; or mayhaps I should rather call them visions. The same tormenting issue you have witnessed before. I wanted to ask... did you see such a dream again since we last spoke about it? Did your dreams... evolve in any way?"

"I cannot tell," Tyelcano furrowed, carefully hiding the surprise from his face. "Yet the same dream now comes to me every night, repetitively, without any kind of change. I now know every small second of it, every little detail, every corner and every shadow. 'Tis more of a vision than a simple dream as you said, and I cannot help but wonder what could it mean. I am starting to have my own ideas."

"Would you recount it to me?"

Tyelcano did not answer at once; he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let the open air caress his face. He and the lord have crossed a thin forest belt, and the plains of Himlad were opening out below them, caressed by the enormous arms of low-running hills.

"In my dreams," the Counsellor said at length, "I am lying on blood-steeped soil at first. It is my own blood. I am gravely wounded, and every breath is painful. I am trying to stretch my legs, my arms. I am hearing the hoarse caw of a raven in the distance, and more creaking voices answer the call. I feel the anticipation of danger and I know my enemies are not far, though I have no memory of what they've done to me."

"With great labour, I turn on my back first, I take deep but ragged breaths, and I rejoice at the feel of fresh air entering my lungs. Wearily, haggardly, I sit up and look down on myself. I see that I am wounded, and my blood is flowing down my chest. The wound does not reach anything vital, and I feel congealed blood slowly covering my biggest wound. It is not as deep as I've thought; and suddenly I come aware of a heavy pounding in my head, as if a blacksmith was working inside my skull with hammer and anvil. I must have been knocked unconscious, and left for dead."

"I look down on myself, and I see your sigil on my chest, my lord. My garments are formal, and I don't understand why would I wear such clothes on a journey in the wilderness. It is usually at this moment that I discern to see my usual dream again. The choir of ravens would not stay silent, and my head hurts. I try to stand but I feel too weak and dizzy. I advance on my hands and knees instead, and try to look around. I see dead everywhere, but they are all Orcs. There is no sign of Elves of any affiliation; I am alone and left for dead. 'Tis dark, long before dawn. Only the stars guide me as I brace myself and finally stand when I reach the edge of the clearing where the dead lay. I stand and walk in starlight, but my wounds drag me down eventually. When I can no longer walk, I crawl; and puffs of morning fog gather around me, they hide me from my enemies."

"I am so very tired, but somehow, I know I have to go. I have to keep moving. Enemies are following me and I am alone; a strange urge to escape burns my heart and I am trying to flee, but my body drags me down, ever down. I hide in caves and breaches as the land rises around me. I walk when I can and crawl when I must. I follow the course of a dried river without any idea where it would take me. It is getting cold, and high mountain-peaks tower above me icily, mercilessly, vigilantly. I lose my sense of time and I despair; and that is when I hear the voice."

 _"All flowers shall wither,_ it says. _In sorrow it has started and in sorrow it must end; behold the banners as they gleam in the light of the rising sun! The night is passing but another night shall come, blacker than ink, black as the Void beyond the Circles of the World. Many years could one wonder and many years could he hope, yet he shan't succeed; the mountains are high and the peaks icy cold, and all flowers shall wither."_

"I feel terribly cold as I crawl forward. I feel my enemies closing in and I am frightened; then shadows overwhelm me. I hear echoes of voices, I feel the hotness of flame, then see the cold gleam of distant stars on my skin. My strength is coming to an end and my consciousness betrays me. I am found, found by shadowy enemies; my hands are bound, I am carried and captured. I am defeated, sinking in a cruel nightmare within a nightmare. All I can feel is fear and insecurity."

"And then the voice speaks again: _Hideous creatures lurk in the walls,_ it says, _and he fleds from them, draping himself into the canvas that is the night. But he who walks in starlight does not flinch; he hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks, and on he wanders, and on he wanders, but a dead end awaits. The gates are closed._ Hearing such words of doom, I despair."

"Yet after a long time, a time that seems like a thousand years, a faint light comes to me and I sit, or I think I sit. I am in a large room; a room at home, in Tirion, and... and I believe I see Aran Finwë looking down at me, his hand on my forehead. He is saying something, but I do not know what. And then I am falling asleep within my dream. Visions and memories merge, I cannot distinguish them. I see gigantic gates, guarded by armies and barred with iron. The gates are closed. I cannot enter. And yet... and yet at the very end I see bright golden light falling on me and I feel warmth. That is all I can remember. Is this by any means similar to your dreams, Lord Nelyo?"

Maedhros shook his head. "I hear the same words and probably the same voice, yet my vision is different, and it mostly consists of merging pictures of icy mountains, valleys and rocks, blood-steeped battlefields, flowing banners and corpses. Countless corpses. Some other times I feel like flying above the whole world and I see fair Tirion as well, draped in the light of moon; 'tis not a picture from my memory, and not only because I cannot fly. The Tirion we knew was irradiated by the light of Trees and we cannot possibly know what would it look like in moonlight! I dislike the visions I have nowadays, for I cannot help but ponder over and over the baleful words I hear. _All flowers shall wither_ might mean that all my plans shall gone awry, no matter what I would do; and I strongly believe that my visions are some means of warning that concern our people's fate. The last time you asked me about these dreams, I was still trying to convince myself that they were meaningless, no more than the product of my own tired imagination. But since then, I have grown wary and impatient, and I despise the hour when night comes and I have to rest again. In a way, it fills me with the same feeling as the darkness of Angamando used to. I feel helpless... within the power of something far greater than I am... all while I feel that physically, logically, I _could_ stop the flood of war and tragedy which is straining the hurdles, but I lack the knowledge, the understanding, the _information_ to do so. And that..."

Tyelcano and his lord were standing straight, facing each other, and their eyes met.

"That frightens me!" Maedhros said, and Tyelcano could not restrain the flash of uneasiness that rushed through his face. Only once before in his waking life had he heard his lord - his king - saying _I am frightened;_ and that was not a moment the Counsellor now wished to remember. Yet Maedhros had chosen the word carefully, that much was evident, even if Tyelcano could not yet fully comprehend what made the issue of this recurring dream so grave to his eyes.

But maybe that did not matter at all. If Maedhros sought him, his Counsellor out with such a personal problem, it must have been gnawing at him for a long time, and Tyelcano had to try his best and help.

"Maybe, my lord," he said at length, as a sudden thought occurred to him, "it's not a coincidence that we do not share the same vision, yet hear the same voice again and again. Maybe our dreams are two parts of a whole, and they only have significance if we put them together. Or... that does not seem very likely, but there may be other parts still missing. Maybe our visions shall change with time."

"Two dreams as a whole?" Maedhros seemed to stir a little bit. "That sounds logical enough."

"Yes, lord. 'Tis strange, though, that it is _me_ of all people you share this dream with. Lord Makalaurë, or any of your other brothers would seem a much more natural choice."

"I would not say, my dear Lord Counsellor," said Maedhros. They sprang to a walk along the narrow path, stray branches of burberry and dogwood grazing their waist and shoulders. "You are as much behind everything that happens in my castle as am I. I decide and you make my decisions work. 'Tis evident that you have to be warned of the same danger as I; only, neither of us can fully comprehend the meaning of these dreams."

"You told me that they made you feel helpless," Tyelcano said in a low voice. "And they filled you with uneasiness. Is that what you feel each night when the dream wakes you up?"

"Sort of. The aftermath of this dream is like some shadow of impending doom that veils the room around me, that suffocates me."

"That might be a point of departure to decipher these visions," Tyelcano propped up his chin with two fingers, deep in thought. "I, my lord, always wake up buzzing with ideas, even though my dream itself makes my skin crawl. I see this vision as a riddle, with all necessary clues hidden inside it, yet I fail to even find _one_ of them. I think it is some kind of task, some means of hint or guidance to forego a disaster that would be inevitable if we wouldn't have been warned with these visions."

"But this is clearly not a warning," Maedhros sighed. "This is a doom. All flower _shall_ wither, it says, not all flowers _might_ wither if we're not swift and smart enough. Also... it says that the gates are closed. Probably meaning that no matter what we do, our doom is already weaved by Vairë and there is nothing we could do to change it."

"The gates are closed," Tyelcano looked Maedhros boldly in the eye. _"Closed,_ my lord. Not locked. Not barred with iron. And our task is probably to open them, whatever that means. There is still a way for us to fair Tirion, and we shall find it. We will probably still suffer a lot from Moringotto's malice; but light is stronger than darkness, for it sees right through it, comprehending its ways and its purpose. Darkness cannot comprehend light and flees even from its sight."

"That is what my father once told me," Maedhros said hesitantly.

"And do you think, my lord, that he lied?"

"Nay. Yet since then, I saw veils of darkness that swallowed even the brightest of lights."

 

~ § ~

 

The shadows of afternoon were deepening around Tyelcano and his lord as they walked back along the path. Soon, the forest began to thin around them, and they reached the grass-overgrown crest of the hill they had climbed, letting the imposing sight of the Fortress of Himring reach their eyes.

The castle was built upon the highest hill of Himlad, wide and treeless, its summit slightly flattened. Lesser hills dappled the horizon as far as their eyes could see, some of them covered by scant forests, others overgrown with grey-green grass, some others utterly bald and rocky. Several watchtowers stood upon distant hills, facing all directions of the compass: tall, lithe shadows against the dewy daylight. Maedhros's banners were fluttering proudly in the never-ceasing wind; the gates of the Himring were open, and a long line of riders was leaving the fortress. Along the high grey walls, beacons were lit.

Tyelcano and his lord exchanged a curious glance, then broke into a run. Soon, they were seen from the castle, and the riders started to gallop towards them with such haste as if the Valaraukar themselves were chasing them. Tyelcano had expected Captain Tulcestelmo or some other high-ranked warrior to lead the line, yet it was a lanky youth who first came to them, his clothes and armor ragged, his left arm wounded, his eyes wide and frightened.

"Lord Warden, Lord Counsellor," he said readily, despite the puzzledness of his mien. "We were about to depart and search the woodlands for you."

"And who gave leave to you, a scout, to do that?" Maedhros said coolly.

"C-captain Tulcestelmo, my lord," the youth stammered. "I - it is about Lord Maglor; he's been wounded, and..."

"My brother, wounded?" Maedhros's eyes widened. "When and how did that happen?"

"This morn, my lord, when the Orcs..."

_"Orcs within my borders?! What in Manwë's name are you doing out there in the Marches?!"_

"Lord Maglor was heading home, my lord," the scout explained apologetically, "and I with him... and several others... when a large troop of Orcs ambushed us. Our numbers were less than two dozen and theirs more than a hundred... we tried to flee, but..."

"A hundred against two dozen?" Tyelcano raised his brows. "How did you even survive? And where is Lord Makalaurë?"

"In the forest, lying, with only two to guard him," the scout stammered. "Please, my lords, come with me, his life is in danger! I shall recount everything you'll have to hear on the road."

"Let us go then," Maedhros straightened his back. "Senge," he called at one of the guards, "please bring my dear old friend, Silmatal."

"And Alasto with him," Tyelcano said.

"They are already saddled, my lords," Senge smiled faintly. "Three led horses as well."

"Three?" Maedhros caressed the nose of his faithful stallion as Silmatal was led to him, and pulled himself up to the saddle. "Is that how many survivors we have?"

"Indeed, Lord Warden," said the scout. Their troop began the descent from the wide hill, horses snorting happily in the faint sunlight.

"Tell us your name, young one," said Tyelcano, "and what happened. You must have fought heroically to save Lord Makalaurë."

"I am called Antalossë, Lord Counsellor," the youth said. "And while we fought with the entirety of our strength, we would have all failed, to the last Elf, if lords Celegorm and Curufin didn't come to our rescue. By the time they chanced upon us, only three of my companions were alive, and we were surrounded by forty-some Orcs. The rest we killed, or they ran off... Two of my kinsmen were bound at my two sides, and the third one left alive was Lord Maglor himself. The Orcs... they started to torment him, to beat him up, and kick him... our blood was boiling, but there was nothing we could do. We could not move, so cruelly we were bound. One of my brothers-in-arms started to kick and scream, and his bowels were cut open as a recompense. I closed my eyes and pretended I had fainted, while I was trying to think about some means of escape... and that was when the lords came. Lord Celegorm took the lash Lord Maglor had been tormented with, and it was with that cruel device that he killed many of our enemies; and Lord Curufin freed me of my bounds and saved my life. After a long and wearisome fight, we managed to scare off the remaining Orcs, but Lord Maglor had already fainted by that time, and he lost lots of blood. Lord Curufin as well. I begged him to come with me and see his wounds tended, but he would not leave his two brothers alone in the wilderness with Orcs around. I can only hope that our enemies avoided them; Lord Maglor could not be moved, and I was the only one who had the strength to run for help."

"You have done well, Antalossë of the March," Maedhros said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You bear my favour and gratitude for having organised the rescue of my brothers, and I am sure they shall be thankful, too."

"I thank you, Lord Warden," Antalossë bowed deeply in the saddle. After slight hesitation, he went on: "Lord Curufin told me... well, he said he would gladly take me as his squire. Would you allow it?"

"I may - ," Maedhros fell silent for a moment. "I may. But my brothers and I still have grave matters to discuss; any such decision shall only come after. And you, Antalossë, have to learn a thing or two as well before you pledge yourself to any lord."

"Are they true then, Lord Warden?" Laiquenis, the healer shifted a little in her saddle. "The rumours we hear about Nargothrond?"

"I do not know what rumours you have heard," Maedhros said gracefully, "but I have my own trustworthy informators; and I would like to hear my brother's account on the events as well before I declare anything. We all know the nature of tales; the hero leaves home in silence and humbleness, and the further he goes, the more unrealistic his quest gets, the more boasting and exaggeration lies within. My brothers are noble lords from the Royal House of Finwë and I shan't have their deeds taken on hearsay."

"Yes, Lord Warden," Laiquenis bowed. "Forgive my hasty words."

"There is nothing to forgive," Maedhros said slowly, "the question was just. Yet it is wrong enough that cruel rumour is spat at the lords of the Quendi from the mouth of their own kin; we must not aggravate this general mistrust any further."

Everyone agreed upon this point, yet Tyelcano sat in the saddle with uneasiness growing in his heart, watching as the wind played with his horse's mane. Alasto was a curious shade of dapple grey, his eyes icy blue, their gaze unsettingly clever and penetrating. Every now and then, the stallion started to dance around restlessly, and the Counsellor was certain he could feel the waves of nervosity and incomprehension around them. Maedhros seemed as calm and collected as ever, but Tyelcano, who had witnessed Feredir's speech and read King Thingol's letter knew he was not as sure of his brothers's innocence as he showed; and the Counsellor himself did not know what to expect, either.

They rode for a good hour still, avoiding the dark lines of the surrounding forest. For once they wanted to be seen, and scare off any remaining enemies.

"If there are Orcs roaming this deep within my borders," Maedhros suddenly said, "something has to be done. They have already taken the Gap and several lands on the edge. They have roamed through the Pass of Aglon and Northern Thargelion. They have robbed and burned down half of Estolad... and now they have grown bold enough to lay hands on my own brothers. I have had enough. Moringotto might have won the last battle, but I am Warden of the East and still his enemy; and these are _my_ lands and _my_ flesh and blood that he's trying to spoil. This time, his black hand reached a bit too far; 'tis about to get burned."

For the first time since the Dagor Bragollach when his lands were sacked and his castle besieged, Tyelcano could hear unveiled anger in his lord's voice. Maedhros rode far before his escort, his eyes bright with unearthly light, his voice clear and sharp.

"Hurry and lead me, Antalossë of the March! Are we far yet?"

"I left them just there, my lord," the young scout said, closing up with his horse to the lord's. "At the foot of the next hill."

Tyelcano signalled for the riders to form a great circle around the area; most of them vanished from sight, either into the forest or behind the close-by hills. Only the Counsellor himself, Antalossë, Senge the guard and Laiquenis remained around Maedhros, who nodded in appreciation of the Counsellor's orders, and gallopped off towards the hill. His companions hurried their horses after their lord, and soon enough, they encountered the first corpses.

They were scarce at the beginning, mostly killed by arrows or stones thrown at their skulls. Only a few Orcs have been sliced up by lances and swords, while the amount of cruelly butchered Elves was alarmingly increasing as they closed up to the hillside. When they finally came upon the large meadow where the worst of the fight had happened in the morning, the scent of death and decay was already wrinkling their noses, and whole armies of flies and crows took wing upon the tracks of their horses' steps.

"Kano!" Maedhros cried, unable to contain himself any longer. "Tyelko! Curvo! Brothers! Can you hear me?"

After a few seconds of dreadful silence, there was a faint "Nelyo!" coming from the back of the meadow. Maedhros jumped off his horse and raced along the green grass, closely followed by Tyelcano and Laiquenis. Antalossë and Senge remained behind to keep the horses in check.

Counsellor Tyelcano had seen much since he'd been born under the stars in fair Cuiviénen; and though he did not know this, there were still almost seven millenia of small joys and deep sorrows waiting to burden his soul... yet even among his countless highs and lows, he never forgot the sight that greeted him when they came upon that meadow.

Maglor was lying against a pinny oak, his head propped up with a pair of tattered cloaks and some kind of other, undistinguishable linen. His face and neck covered with colorful bruises, his breath came in painful hisses and his eyelids were swollen, his lips dry. Curufin was kneeling above him, holding the back of his hand, whispering soothing words in his ears, his arms curled protectively around him. Celegorm was sitting next to the pair of them, his elbows on his knees, his face gaunt and expressionless, his eyes two empty grey pools. He did not even raise his head at the sight of them.

Both Celegorm and Curufin seemed famished and dirty, their hair unkept and matted, their hands almost skeletal, clad in rags, a faint smell of putrescence lingering around them. Maedhros, who less than a second ago had still been running mindlessly to aid his brothers, suddenly halted and stared at the scene unfolding before his eyes. Tyelcano slowed down his steps as well, and cast a wary glance upon Curufin, then Celegorm, then the seemingly unconscious Maglor, and then his lord.

Celegorm still seemed to be unaware of his surroundings; his shoulders slamped, his face pale and blank, all his figure speaking of denial and shame. Curufin, on the other hand, raised his eyes straight to meet those of Maedhros; and for the smallest fraction of a second, his face went cold and barred, something akin with enmity flashing through his eyes. It was an expression of wounded pride and humiliatedness, an expression of blind pain and mistrust, a trait of those who have been sent to exile, or who have been discarded by their own people or brothers-in-arms. For the shortest of moments, Curufin was painfully similar to Fëanor himself, the fallen star of a late Age.

Maedhros beheld his brothers in silence, his stern grey eyes softening for a moment, and his sigh was soft and unheard by all save the Counsellor; yet it was like a tempest, deep and sorrowful, in it a breeze of unearthly power and elemental fury.

"Nelyo," Curufin said, his voice throaty and low, deep wells of sadness opening within his eyes.

And that moment, Tyelcano knew that everything Feredir told them was impartial and true.

 

~ § ~

 

"Are you going to let him suffer, now that we have come this far to his rescue?" Laiquenis ran across the meadow, and fell to her knees next to Maglor. "Make yourselves useful, lords, and bring me clean water! There is a spring at the other side of the hill."

"A task for me," said Celegorm, suddenly awake from his reverie.

"Not before I broke your bones, little brother," Maedhros said, his face unreadable. Celegorm stiffened, but his elder stepped to him with open arms, and embraced him, planting a kiss upon his brows. "Take my cloak, Tyelko, it will serve you well. And be swift! Kano shall need to drink fresh water once he's awake." His eyes were gentle and they betrayed nothing of his previous turmoil.

Celegorm's arms tightened around his brother's waist for a moment, but he accepted the offer and draped himself in the soft crimson fabric.

"Counsellor, Lady Laiquenis," he said, his voice calm and collected but his eyes still dreadfully empty, "I am glad that we meet again."

"So am I, Lord Tyelkormo," Tyelcano said. "So am I."

Laiquenis was already checking Maglor's pulse, but she raised her head as well, and graced the brothers with a smile.

"Well met, lords, and welcome back," she said. "Lord Curufinwë," she continued in an authoritative voice, "I have been told you were suffering from an injury."

"That can wait, my golden-handed lady," Curufin said gently. "It is no more than a scratch, while my brother is in danger."

"I've been told _no more than a scratch_ more times than I could count," Laiquenis rolled her eyes. "Back then, I was young and naive, and I thought seasoned warriors must be able to measure the graveness of their own injuries, but that is the most cruel of lies."

"I have heard more cruel ones, lady," Curufin said gently, and helped her straighten Maglor's arms and legs.

"What happened to you all?!" Maedhros found his voice again. "And what madness made you and Tyelko attack a troop of forty-some Orcs? You could have died!"

"At first, we planned to run and warn you about their presence," Curufin sighed. "But then... then we saw them beating Kano up, and we could not contain ourselves. It was probably a witless deed to do, but we had to do it, Nelyo. We could not leave him at the mercy of Orcs. I don't think that Tyelko had anything specific in mind other than blind rage and indignation, but _I_ was afraid that the whole ambush had been previously planned and they wanted to capture Kano, then hide their precious prize from our eyes."

"An Orc-ambush within my borders," Maedhros foamed. "Two hours' run from my own castle! Curse Moringotto and his rats! What have they done to Kano? Do you think he might suffer from inner bleeding?"

"That is unfortunately very likely," Curufin nodded. "His nose has been bleeding as well, but at least we managed to stop that. For a little while, he was conscious, and he told us how stupid we were for rescuing him. And he also mentioned you, Nelyo... he spoke of some message that someone took and that he came too late."

"A message that someone took?" Maedhros frowned. "I wrote him a short letter, summoning him back to the Himring for I wanted to have a word, asking him to abandon his beloved watchtowers for a while. That is all."

"We did not understand that, either," Curufin shrugged. "I suppose he felt dizzy, and wanted to say too many things at the same time; thus his thoughts merged."

"He does have an ugly swelling at the back of his head," Laiquenis commented, her skilled fingers drawing delicate patterns in Maglor's hair. "And he was thoroughly beaten; the muscles in his chest are all stiff. He'll need at least three days to fully recover - if he doesn't suffer from internal bleeding, that is. Curse those cruel beasts who have done this to gentle, kind Lord Makalaurë!"

"Can you do anything now to lessen his pain?" Maedhros almost pleaded.

"I shall need a fire to heat water," Laiquenis said. "Celandine for the wounds that bleed, milfoil for the ones that are hidden. I cannot risk anything else before examining the lord more thoroughly; yet I can almost certainly say that these shall lessen his pain for a short while."

Tyelcano had to smile at Curufin's and Maedhros's eagerness as they carried out the healer's commands. Laiquenis never had a problem with ordering lords and kings around when the need arose; she was a skilled healer and a strong, stern woman, but not one without a sense of humour. The Counsellor suspected that the latter was the very reason why Maedhros let her and only her tend to his wounds; and perhaps also that Laiquenis had taken part of the group of healers who had helped him recover after his rescue from Morgoth's captivity.

Merely a few minutes later, fire was crackling happily next to them, and Laiquenis began to heat the contents of the small bottle she carried with herself. Soon, Celegorm arrived with fresh water, and Tyelcano held Maglor's shoulders while Laiquenis washed his face gently, and smiled with satisfaction when a wave of wild shiver ran down the Noldo's spine, and two stormy grey eyes opened, then blinked.

"Cold water," Maglor mumbled disapprovingly.

"A perceptive lord," Laiquenis caressed his forehead lightly. "Can you sit up?"

"Lady Goldenhands!" His eyes opened again, and with an effort, Maglor smiled. "I am saved! Am I - am I at home already?"

"Nay," Laiquenis said lightly, and helped Maglor ease his back against the oak tree behind him. "I'll give you a draught to regain your strength, and then we'll go home. Does it hurt your lordship when I do this?"

The examination went on for a while; here and there, Maglor hissed and his eyes welled in tears of pain, but he seemed to get better; and soon enough, he was sipping milfoil tea in the shadow of the great oak. Maedhros sat beside him, kissed his cheek, asked him how he fared; and Maglor leaned against his brother and accepted his comfort, not caring that the others saw him. He seemed reluctant to speak about the Orcs, yet he very willingly provided a colorful and detailed description of Celegorm beating them up with a whip, explaining that back then, he thought he only saw a dream. Tyelcano listened to him with a ruminative smile on his face, his fingers playing with a strand of celandine. Such a small flower it was, yet its healing power was estimated beyond measure...

"Curvo, Tyelko," Maglor said suddenly, his voice still a bit weak, "'tis only now that it occurs to me... have you come alone?"

"We always come in pack, Kano," Curufin smiled quizzically. "I have Tyelko, and Tyelko has me."

"No, I mean... where is Tyelpë? Where is Erenis? Where is Huan? Where is... anyone...? Has something happened? Valar, don't tell me that they all... that they have all... and your clothes..."

"Nothing happened," Celegorm said, his voice blank. "They are safe."

"Everything is in order," Curufin nodded.

"I have no doubt about that," Maedhros said, and there was a sardonical edge to his voice that made them both wince. "But let us discuss those matters later, shall we?"

"Something has happened," Maglor asserted with grave eyes. "Something I do not know of. That is why you sent for me to come at once."

Maedhros closed his eyes, and he suddenly seemed very tired.

"Do not burden yourself, Kano," he said. "Drink your tea, come home with us, and recover. You will know everything in time, I promise you."

"Tell me," Maglor insisted. "I can handle it, no matter what it is."

"Most of it is still to be explained, I believe," said Maedhros.

"Please, Maitimo, tell me..."

"Later, I said," Maedhros caressed his brother's hair, but his eyes were cold and commanding. "And now I, Nelyafinwë, Lord of the Himring, Warden of the East and Head of your House command you to finish your tea and let Lady Laiquenis tend to you. Do you think you shall be able to ride?"

"I may give him a mouthful of spirit that gives him strength for a few hours to help him home," Laiquenis said, "but after that, he shall feel weaker than before, and he'll need to stay in bed."

"I am willing to take that risk," Maglor said, "I don't want to slow you down."

"Let it be so," Maedhros nodded. "I would like to hit the road within the hour. Counsellor, please bid Antalossë and Senge to bring us horses, and another spare cloak as well. I won't have any of my brothers parading around in rags."

"I don't want a spare cloak," Curufin said, his voice suddenly very cold. "And I don't want to be lectured, humiliated and judged. If you are ashamed of me as I look now, Nelyo, then our ways shall part here."

"And you will go - where exactly?" Celegorm growled at him. "Don't be such a fool!"

 _"I am no fool but I have my dignity!"_ Curufin hissed back at him.

"You know where you can shove your dignity! Those times are gone, sweet brother, when we had such luxuries. Seize the opportunity while you can, and be glad that we're not rejected!"

"Be glad that I'm allowed to breathe, is it that? I will have none of it, thank you! What happened to you, Tyelko? Why are you so willing to crawl in the dust?"

"For Valar's sake, you were only asked to _accept a cloak!"_ Celegorm cried. "I've had enough of this, Curvo! I am weak and famished, and longing for a good night's sleep when I don't have to dread enemies in the darkness who want to slice my throat! Is that so much to ask from you to accept such a comfort?"

"Rejected...? Famished...? Darkness...? Throats...?" Maglor shook his head in distress. "What in Varda's holy name is going on here?! Maitimo...?"

"Easy, Lord Makalaurë," Laiquenis said softly, "you're tearing the bandages."

Tyelcano's and the lady's eyes met for the smallest fraction of a second, and the Counsellor knew they were feeling the same uneasiness, witnessing an unpleasant, but quite private family moment.

"Tyelko, Curvo," Maedhros finally said. "You are my brothers. I have heard many things of late, but that is a truth that will never change, nor will I ever discard or deny it. You are my flesh and blood, and my home is your home... whatever happens. As long as I draw breath, all of my brothers and their servants, followers, friends or companions of any kind shall be fed, housed and garmented. If you prefer your rags, ride in them. I wished to spare you the narrow glances and humiliation, but if it's that you would rather have, I shan't deny it from you. If either of you would rather offend me by not eating food from my table, you are free to do that as well. But if you're asking me to leave you alone in the wilderness, I cannot do that. Will not do that. Come with me, and I shall ask you questions, then we'll come to a compromise. And if your trust in your eldest brother is so weak that you think I would ever gag, humiliate or judge you, you may have witnesses on your own. But do accept that you owe me a few explanations on certain matters, and I will have my answers relatively soon, whether you are willing to provide them or not."

For a few seconds, utter stillness reigned on the meadow, only Maglor moved, his lips forming the words "what in Moringotto's seven hells" over and over again.

Finally, Curufin bowed in front of his brother.

"Forgive me, Lord Warden," he said reluctantly, "you have never deserved this insult. I grew rather... weary since last year, but that doesn't blunt the edge of my words, of course. Please grant me another moment of your patience if you can."

"Granted," Maedhros said gracefully. "Now come with me. We have to scout the surroundings over before we leave; and the burial of our dead should be organised as well. We cannot leave them rot here in disgrace, under the open air."

"What of the Orcs, my lord?" Tyelcano asked.

Maedhros did not even turn his head as he said,

"Burn them."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 2:  
> On name meanings (all in Quenya):  
> Senge (adj. keen of sight, observant, sagacious)  
> Laiquenis: laique+nisse = Herb-woman (not the most ingenious name for a healer, I know... but I wanted something very simple and beautiful). Initially, she would have appeared in a previous chapter called 'O Damnation' (also in Tyelcano's POV) which has been cropped due to changes in the storyline, but some scenes from it may still be used later.  
> "Haru" means "Grandfather", as far as I know. Please correct me, if not.
> 
> About "it": "It" is a strange (and in the world of Arda, rather incomprehensible) medical condition of Maedhros that you may witness later.


	9. Wells of Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, I believe, is the most daring piece of fanfiction I have ever published. To others, it may not seem * that * grandiose or special, but I've been pondering for months whether or not to include this fragment in the story - it was extremely challenging to write, and what is before you now, dear reader, is the fifth rewritten version of the original chapter. (I still can't say I'm entirely satisfied, by the way).
> 
> I would like to thank you for your lovely and insightful comments of late :) you guys all made me really happy, and I hope you'll continue liking this story.

_**The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the fifth day of Víressë** _

The Warden of the East could hardly remember any occasion when he was trying to _prolongate_ a small council, but today's meeting proved to be a remarkable exception. Time passed with unmatched, almost supernatural speed, and the discussion rushed through all those meticulous, worrisome subjects that otherwise occupied several hours.

It happened thus that he ran out of words, and had to face the inevitable much sooner than he'd intended to.

"Captain!"

Maedhros's voice clanged like a sharp blade on iron; he shielded himself with its stern vigour of authority, his speech blank and free of the low, gut-wrenching flame of doubt and foreboding that burned inside his chest.

"At your command, Lord Warden," Tulcestelmo said meekly, his shoulders shifting a little while he sat, and Maedhros reminded himself to lessen the intensity of his gaze. People seldom dared to look him straight in the eye; fruitlessly he wondered what were they seeing in their depths.

"The matter of the insolent Orc-filth, I believe, is settled, if your scouts had indeed killed them off. Is there anything else I should know about?"

"Nay, Lord Warden," said the Captain of Guards and he bowed, then looked around in the small room. "The attacks shall renew and our strength needs to be gathered; but for instance, we cannot do anything else but wait. If none of your lordships wish to comment, then I believe we could end the council meeting of this morn."

Maedhros looked questioningly at his brother Maglor, then at his counsellor Tyelcano who were seated at his two sides, and when neither of them raised any objections, he nodded his approvement.

"Very well. Today's small council is over, then. Captain, please pass my summon to lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë; seek them out in person, if it is not too worrisome to you. I want neither curious eyes nor intruding ears around my halls today."

"As your lordship commands," Tulcestelmo said. He bowed once again and turned to leave the room, but Tyelcano called after him.

"Also, Captain, it would be wise to let them know that they were summoned in the Great Hall."

For the smallest fraction of a second, Tulcestelmo's face was ruled by confusion, even a sparkle of fear, but he swiftly regained control over his mien, and went to do as asked.

"The Great Hall!" Maglor exclaimed as soon as the door closed behind the Captain. "Why? Maitimo, I waited half a week, but my patience is over! _Speak!_ What is this all about? I have so many questions..."

"So do we, lord," Tyelcano said, sadness in his eyes. "So do we. Yet we cannot decide if learning the entire truth could bring us any sort of satiety. Mayhaps even the contrary..."

Maedhros studied both their faces carefully. Maglor's health had considerably improved in the last three days, but an air of frailness and exhaustion still lingered around him, and the silvery light of his eyes burned lower than usual. Also, there seemed to be something remarkably different in his behaviour than before, but no matter how hard Maedhros tried, he could not guess what it was. Tyelcano, on the other hand, was as cool and collected as ever, his clothes moteless and austere, his hair in a tight braid without as much as a stray tress peeking out from amongst its dark waves. Yet his face was grave, and he seemed somewhat careworn. Maedhros knew his Counsellor loathed what was now to come as much as he, but he did not expect the task to take such a striking, visible effect.

"Let us not dwell on possible outcomes while we do not yet have enough insight on the present," he said casually, suppressing his doubts. "Never you worry, my brother: your questions are going to be answered, for great things have happened while you were away in the marches; terrible, but great things. We need to gather in the Great Hall in order to demonstrate the gravity of certain happenings. Brothers or not, we need to talk to Tyelko and Curvo _seriously –_ let me explain why."

He picked up the thread of happenings on that fateful night when Tyelcano had brought him Caranthir's mysterious message; the tale unfolded almost by itself, and Maglor listened warily. Maedhros told him about Feredir's arrival and repeated everything the messenger had revealed; yet he did not mention anything related to his recurring nightmares. Without such mystic context the facts seemed dry and merciless, and they rang far more gravely in their ears than Maedhros had presumed. Uneasiness grew in his heart, and impulsively, he tightened his grip on the armrest of his chair.

Celegorm's and Curufin's actions, repeated aloud in these cold, impartial words, were nothing else than the story of a conspiracy.

A web of intrigues.

A series of crimes.

 _Crimes require punishment,_ Maedhros almost heard his father's pervasive, emotional voice emerging from the depths of time, _be it even a Vala who commits them! Injustice is against the laws of life and nature, and it is to be condoned. If the Valar decide to close their eyes, plug their ears and hum, hoping that evil shall evanish like puffs of smoke, then let them! A king brings justice to his people, even if it means his death. A king is not cowed by fake wisdom; a king takes all his force and fights!_

 _Would you be able to use the power of law against your own sons, Father?_ Maedhros thought, but even before he voiced the question in his head, he knew Fëanáro would.

Of course he would - if the want of the law was the same as the want of his will.

_I am not as firm as you were, Father. I might waver. Yet I know that a judgement has to be made, so make one I shall. Give me strength, if you can hear me now: help me do what is right!_

It was only then that it occurred to him that his Father may not have always done what was right; but who else could he ask for guidance?

"How do you feel about the things you have now heard, Kano?" he asked to break the uncomfortable silence. Not that he expected the answer to bring him solace.

"I am at a loss of words, brother," Maglor said slowly. "I... I feel something between deep worry, fury and disgust. This... what happened to Findaráto… is unspeakable. It is horrible. It is unforgivable! I honestly _do not know_ what to say. I can't see Tyelko and Curvo committing such terrible deeds, but evidence speaks against them. They might have deserved their punishment, yet my heart weeps when I imagine the hardships they must have lived through, alone in the wilderness for a whole year...! And then, despite everything, they saved my life; they ran down the Orcs without a second thought when they saw me in danger. I owe them my life, my freedom and my sanity, but..." Maglor shook his head. "I don't know what should we expect if we mean to question them on this matter. Would it make the situation any better, not only worse...? And Thingol's letter..."

"Today's meeting shall determine the road we should take to handle them," Maedhros said determinedly. "We shall see how they explain themselves if they're asked about their deeds, and how they evaluate them. It should help us a great deal."

Maglor straightened his back suddenly, as if bitten by an invisible insect.

"Maitimo! Are you implying that we shall pretend we know nothing? That we shall... that we shall lay a trap for them?"

Despite everything, Maedhros had to smile.

_Direct and chivalrous as ever, my dear brother. You do not deserve to see times such as these; your heart lives in fair Valinórë still._

"We shall suggest that everything we've heard, we've heard by obscure rumors. I shall show them Carnistir's letter as a start, but nothing else. If they are honest, this should not serve as a trap," he said. "Yet if they are not..."

_"Do you honestly think they shall lie...?"_

"We can never know, Kano. We should see it for ourselves."

"Maitimo," Maglor shook his head violently. "This... I cannot participate in this. _They saved my life!"_

"And by their cruel machinations, they took that of Findaráto!"

"They are our brothers!"

_"Do you honestly think I have forgotten that?!"_

For the first time that day, Maedhros could not contain his anger and frustration; he felt it springing out from the depths of his fëa and pervading his voice, creating a sharp edge to it that made his brother flinch.

"Listen, Kano," he sighed, taking a deep breath. "I offer you a deal. Should they both prove honest, I shall tell them the truth after they've confessed, and I shall apologize for not having trusted them, promising it would never happen again. I shall also tell that you were adamantly against the idea, and it was me who forced it upon you. Are we even?"

 _"No!"_ Maglor wuthered. "If someone has to take the blame, we shall take it together. By participating in such a conspiracy, I become an accomplice."

"Nay, Lord Makalaurë." Counsellor Tyelcano spoke softly, yet the power of his will strengthened his voice. "If someone must take the blame for such an action, that should be me. You brothers must not let such strifes separate you. 'Tis me who deemed today's hearing absolutely necessary, 'tis me who arranged it the way it will happen, and as long as Lord Nelyo does not order me otherwise, my mind is set. If happenings and circumstances prove I was wrong, the wavering of your brothers' good will and trust in me shall prove a fair punishment. Neither of you lords can risk that."

Maedhros felt Maglor's eyes on him, but for once, he didn't meet his gaze. His brother's soft musical voice cut his ear like a mistuned violin string; now Maglor, too, was perturbed.

_"You gave your consent to this?"_

"Counsellor Tyelcano was determined to set the plan in motion," Maedhros said carefully, "and I trust his wisdom. If he's wrong, I _will_ share the responsibility with him, regardless of what he suggests; and trust me, Kano, we both hope he shall be wrong."

Maglor shook his head.

"But why? _Why on Arda shouldn't we trust Tyelko and Curvo?"_

This was one of those moments when Maedhros felt the need to sincerely ask his brother how did he survive the past five centuries; but as always, he suppressed the question.

"Kano...," He only shook his head instead. "Think for a moment, think about what you have just heard. Then repeat that question to yourself. You can answer it. Love them we do, fear for them we might... yet why on Arda _should we_ trust Tyelko and Curvo...?"

"They are Lords of the Ñoldor, the Wise People. And they are our brothers, Nelyo! Our blood!"

"Our blood, aye. Atar was our blood as well - and we are his." Maedhros swallowed hard, and stopped the train of his thoughts. "We are living dark and cruel times. Fair faces and bright eyes do not speak to me, Kanafinwë; nor does blood; nor do wise words. Faces can wither, eyes can darken, blood can be spilled and words are wind. 'Tis the deeds that speak."

Maglor had no answer to that.

"Ai, wisely did your brother speak! You were unconscious then, Lord Makalaurë, so you may not remember it," Tyelcano said darkly, "but when we came to your rescue, and Lord Curufinwë saw us, there was a strange look in his eyes. I know that look; and I fear it."

 

~ § ~

 

By the time Celegorm and Curufin entered, a long table had been set in front of Maedhros's richly carved chair in the Great Hall, and four other seats have been settled around it as well. The one on his right was occupied by Tyelcano, and the other one on his left by Maglor. The seats were arranged in a fashion that the two wayward brothers would have to face the trio of their judges, not being able to escape their eyes.

The table was richly loaded with roasted meat, various garnishings, rich soup and several flagons of the finest wine the servants could find in the cold cellars of the fortress: a gesture that implied the sort of warmth and hospitality that Maedhros refused to stint his brothers of, whatever the situation.

"You have sent for us, Nelyo," Celegorm spoke.

In the days past, the two brothers were all but ordered to stay in the comfort of their beds and regain their strength; and indeed Celegorm had won back some morsels of his previous grace. His eyes were still empty, though, and his voice flatter than Maedhros remembered it to be.

"Is there a particular reason for the choice of place?" Curufin inquired, his stark eyes scanning the adornments on the walls, the lustres swinging down from the far ceiling, the long banners of the House of Fëanáro hanging tensely from each wall. They were made of red velvet with the Star woven into their middle with threads of gold: Maedhros's colours.

_So it begins._

Maedhros remembered the words of care and comfort he'd greeted his brothers with when they first arrived, and for a moment, he wavered; but Curufin's haughty words came back to his mind in a distorted whisper. His brother had been even reluctant to accept a cloak from him, and seemingly, he had to cow himself in order to follow his requests. If such a small flicker of his precious pride had nearly proved too much for him to sacrifice, is the trust he, Maedhros is now fighting so desperately to protect even still there...?

 _We're becoming strangers to each other,_ he lamented, but silenced his mind at once, wary of the dark places his thoughts might take him. Curufin was looking him in the eye, after all; and though he was still so slim that the lines of his exquisite cheekbones hardened the edges of his face, his eyes were honest and a smile played on his lips. His whole being radiated of grace and nobility, and Maedhros found himself smiling back at him.

"Your arrival was so sudden I did not have the chance to make preparations for a welcoming feast," he said casually. He stood, tall in the daylight filtered by grandiose windows, and gestured towards the two empty seats. "Come, brothers, sit with us and be at ease; for we have much to talk about."

Celegorm slightly bowed and did as he's been told: he took the left seat, the one that faced Counsellor Tyelcano. Curufin, however, remained standing, his intent gaze scanning the faces of the three interrogators. He was still smiling, though the smile seemed now a sad one; the tension in his shoulders loosening a bit, he let out a soft, ethereal sigh. Yet no emotion reached his eyes; their orbs remained deep and lifeless like two greyish dark pools.

"Nelyo," he said in a low voice that was almost a whisper, "I do not see why would you consider to organise a feast for our arrival. 'Tis not a joyful or pleasant event, rather a day of great grief to us all. As you are probably aware, 'twas not the pull of brotherly love that pursued us here this time."

"Aye, that much I know," said Maedhros, and passion crept into his tone; he tried in vain to silence the words springing from his heart. "When I saw you in those stinking rags, part of me wanted to strangle you! Tyelko, Curvo, you are my brothers and I feared for you, I searched for you, I was _furious_ with you! You cannot _imagine_ how I felt when the Lord Counsellor sought me out in the middle of the night some weeks ago, and gave me this letter!"

With that, he handed Caranthir's message above the table to Celegorm, and waited for the effect. Curufin slid closer as well, gazing at the short note, his features unreadable.

"There it is," Counsellor Tyelcano cut in. "A stolen Silmaril, the pair of you banned from Nargothrond. And not even a word from your lordships for your worrying brothers to read. Not even the vaguest kind of news!"

"This is a most grievous matter," Maglor nodded. Maedhros still saw the lingering uneasiness in his eyes. "Would you please explain us _what in Manwë's and Varda's name happened?!_ Who stole that Silmaril, where is it now and why were you banned...? Are those events linked by any means? We received your letter about a certain Man and the folly of Findaráto - could this mean that the impossible came true? That they _succeeded?"_

The words echoed in the Great Hall for a long time, finally evanishing into shocked silence. Then Curufin leaned back in his chair, and for the fraction of a second, a wave of something Maedhros could have identified as deep turmoil just as well as wild amusement rushed through his face.

"You -," he said slowly, almost experimentally. "You..."

"You know nothing?!" Celegorm swallowed, his voice becoming warm and steady at once. _"Nothing?_ You have yet to hear..."

Another minute passed in sullen silence; only the air vibrated with the silent tension of racing thoughts. Finally, Curufin shifted a little in his chair, crossed his legs comfortably, and emptied his goblet. Counsellor Tyelcano leaned across the table and filled it again, his eyes never leaving Curufin's face, who nodded his thanks.

"They have yet to hear, Tyelko," he said after another silent, motionless minute, his fingernails playing a soft staccato on the rubies wrought into his cup. His voice was bemused and sad; Maedhros wouldn't have been surprised if he pulled out a lyre from under his cloak and started to sing a lament for some fallen hero.

"Drink deep and well, my lord brothers, Lord Counsellor, for this may be the very last time we feast together. For great wrongs we have done, and I shall not deny them. I only pray, Nelyo, that you hear our poor explanation. Please never mistake it for any means of excuse."

Curufin's voice was soft and melodious, his dark eyes shifting from every face in the hall, at one moment hidden behind his soot-black hair, at the other buried in his slender hands.

"I shall hear whatever explanation you deem fit," Maedhros said, steadying his tone, though all he wanted to do was to cross the distance between him and Curufin and pull him in a tight embrace, so great his sadness seemed to be. "Be at peace, brothers of mine; for no sin, no fault and no misunderstanding shall ever diminish my love for you. Whatever was it that you did, though, we need to hear it: otherwise, we cannot get ourselves ready for toils to come."

"Save your generosity for later, Nelyo," Celegorm said gently. "You shall gravely need it."

He exchanged a swift glance with Curufin, and for the fraction of an instant, Maedhros caught - or thought he did - that one glance in the latter's eyes Tyelcano was afraid of.

And then -

And then nothing happened.

Their meal went on, slow, delightful and perfectly usual; and the two brothers evolved their tale.

 

~ § ~

 

It was Celegorm who first picked up the thread of events, starting with that fateful day when a haggard Man came to Nargothrond's halls with a strange ring on his finger, and sought a private audience with the King. He precised an important detail - the importance of which had somehow not registered in Maedhros's mind before -, that King Finrod meant to keep the aim of the Quest in secret, and did not wish for anyone from the House of Feanor to know about the errand of pursuing a Silmaril, until the very last moment, when the departure of King Findaráto was announced before the people of Nargothrond.  
"He must have hoped that the veil of uncertainty would serve him and his party well either until they die or until the stolen Jewel is safely hid," Celegorm explained, "and I do not blame him for that. It could have worked - but Curvo and I have sharp eyes and sharper ears. We had word of their plans, and evidently, we strongly opposed them. We spoke with the King three times, begging him not to go; out of simple friendship at first, for even if we held a grudge against Findaráto for not trusting us, we wished him well. When we saw that rational arguments were not likely to convince him, we tried relying on his close ones, implying that his passing would prove too great of a loss for many. But all our efforts were in vain. Lastly, I knocked on his door in the middle of the night before he went on that foolish errand, and I furiously reminded him of a King's duty towards his people. I said he had neither the right to send them all to a hopeless battle, nor the allowance to leave them and race laughing to his death. I told him he was being mad and irresponsible."-

"What was his answer to that?" Maglor asked softly.

"He coldly reminded me of Alqualondë, and asked if I thought I had the right to lecture him about honour and duty. People really need to stop to use that argument against us - 'tis becoming most tiring."

"But not invalid," Maedhros muttered under his breath. In any sort of debate, Alqualondë was a cruel weapon indeed, a pair of shackles on their wrists; he wondered if they could ever break free of them.

"It happened thus that we gave up convincing Findaráto: a most grievous mistake," Curufin spoke, his voice low and far more gentle than Maedhros had expected.

 _Perhaps a bit too gentle,_ he thought, but some deep fibre of his being suppressed that suspicion.

"Our time was growing short, and he seemed determined to go. We dreaded the day, Nelyo, when the King and his army would depart to Angamando, and leave the city of Nargothrond unguarded; and it came far too soon indeed. Thus at the last moment, out of desperation, we used the power of our voices to make the people stay - to save their lives. Mayhaps it was unjust and wrong what we did; we might have spoken and acted against the ruler under whose command we lived; but I am asking you, my brothers, I'm asking you Lord Counsellor: were scorn, life threat and exile a fair punishment for such a debatable act? Is it not enacted in the Laws of the Ñoldor that no one can be compelled to follow their lord into folly or cruelty?"

"Aye, Lordship, that is," Counsellor Tyelcano said softly, "at least, in theory."

"That theory should become practice, Lord Counsellor," Curufin said proudly _._

When these words were uttered, there was a small flash in Tyelcano's eyes. He shifted a little in his chair, and suddenly he seemed to be listening far more intently than before.

"If the cause of authority is wrong," Curufin went on, his head held high, "otherwise treacherous deeds may prove valiant to impartial eyes. No one stands above law; and law is the command of reason and sanity. We did not let the people fall to darkness, we did not let them march into the Realm of Darkness unguarded. We saved them from falling victim to Moringotto's wrath, we saved them from dying in the dungeons of Angamando, we did not let them follow their king to utter folly; though Findaráto still took the best of his knights with him, all armed with the finest steel, a ray of light against the blackness of the Enemy's malice. The King left his people to wait, devoid of hope, and who did he leave behind to sit on his throne, take his stead and rule...? His incompetent nephew! I would rather see a Dwarf dwell in fair Nargothrond's halls than thin-voiced, stone-tongued Artaresto! That slow dullard! That..."

"Brother," Celegorm said alarmingly, and seeing a soft motion under the table-cloth, Maedhros suspected he took Curufin by the hand.

"You are right, Tyelko," Curufin said to his great surprise, and he let out a wary sigh, closing his eyes for a moment, his face suddenly tired, his voice meek. "I let my feeling run high. Artaresto must have taken our deeds for cruel treason, and he might as well have acted out of grief and desperation. Still, he ignored his duties and continued to pace back and forth along his halls like a ghost; thusly, it fell to us to govern the city. Our servants helped us much: without their assistance, we could have never held all matters at hand. For that we could be thankful; our forces were gathered, and the tasks were so numerous that we paid little heed to mourning King Findaráto. Indeed, that time we could not know what his fate would be, yet deep in our hearts, each and every one of us agreed that he would die. But we all know the ways of the people: they tend to separate, to set aside unpleasant matters from their everyday thoughts and wonderings, and with time, they forget them even; yet when the time comes and their darkest forebodings are fulfilled, who is then to blame...?"

"Their King," Celegorm answered the poetic question, his voice smooth and sweet. "Or their leaders. Their lords - which were us, in this unlucky case. Someone had to hold the reins, and we were willing to lead the people. Even under Findaráto's rule, we had a place of honour in his council, and people loved us, people followed us. Until that fateful day -"

"...when news came of Findaráto's death," Curufin sighed. "Did it come as a surprise to any soul within the city's walls? I cannot tell. Yet people were outraged, and they mourned their king in great sorrow and turmoil. Who could fault them? Not the two of us. Yet somehow, some way, everything we had done to maintain order in Nargothrond seemed to be forgotten at once; and we were exposed, pilloried and pointed at. People faulted us for having sent the King to exile by our evil machinations. I ask you, my brothers, I ask you, Lord Counsellor: was it not the pair of us who had most fervently opposed this Quest of folly at the first place? Yet that was forgotten as well. Even the final outrage was forgotten, when I stood up against King Findaráto when he was already at the gates, amount his white stallion, and told him he was abandoning his duties as a ruler. Half the city saw me there, standing there, uttering these words... as if some sort of dark magic, some sort of unexplainable, horrible doom had fallen across Nargothrond. We were no longer loved; and Artaresto finally woke from his winter sleep and banished us. At least he did not let the people slaughter us; for that much, we can be thankful."

Silence followed these words; and Maedhros pondered everything that he had heard. The beginning of the story had seemed almost like a song of forgotten Ages - it was vague, subtle, dark, and Maedhros found that Celegorm's rich, deep baritone was most pleasant for his otherwise racing mind to hear.

But when Curufin spoke, his sensations changed again: the soft, pervading voice soothed his fëa, cleared his perceptions, ravelled out the painful bogs in his thoughts. As if new perspectives of truth and reality had just opened before him...!

With no more than the help of that subtle voice, he suddenly understood rapports and coherencies he'd never before took in; and all at once, everything seemed so simple and evident. Of course people would be less wise than his brothers; they are Lords of the Ñoldor for a reason. Of course they would wrongfully blame them! Of course his brothers had to cruelly suffer, in order to save the people - someone had to take the blame, and they were willing. They did not flinch...

A vague impression floated through Maedhros's mind; the mild suspicion of having forgotten something.

_Could it be something about woodelves, mayhaps?_

He still sat wordless, his gaze wandering back and forth between his brothers' faces, enticed by the expression he saw on them. Celegorm sat straight like a king robbed of his throne, discarded by his knights, alone with his selfless generosity and righteousness; and Curufin was like a great scholar next to him, a master of crafts, a gentle and misunderstood soul: too proud to ask for understanding, but too wary to demand respect.

"O, my brothers, my dear Lord Tyelco," he said mournfully, "how terribly pained I was, how guilty I felt when I heard of Findaráto's death! I could not free myself from under the impression that I did not do enough. I failed to notice some way out of future disaster. I should have convinced him somehow... some way... but Findaráto was a good king, and an Elf of strong will. A worthy kinsman of ours: once he was determined to do a deed, nothing and no one could stand in his way. Unfortunately, not even Tyelkormo and Curufinwë from the mighty house of Fëanáro."

Curufin bowed his head, as if the weight of his past decisions was pressing too hard on his shoulders. Celegorm wrapped an arm around him, comforting him.

Counsellor Tyelcano was listening still more intently.

"And that is not the end of the story," Celegorm said, a shadow of his ancient vigour in his voice. "When we were banished from Nargothrond, the folly of fear was so great in the hearts of the people that even our own servants: our kinsmen, our soldiers, our guards, our followers betrayed us! They took us for traitors, for murderers. Not even Tyelpërinquar and Erenis were willing to follow us; in Nargothrond they remained, under the rule of Artaresto. It was with great pain that we parted from them, but we had no choice."

"I paid a great price for my mistakes indeed," Curufin agreed gently, his eyes suddenly fixed on his hands. "To the end of my days I shall grieve for that day. But by the grace of Oromë, Hunter of the Woods, I hope that we shall find our ways back to each other. That is all a father can wish for."

When Curufin looked up to meet his eyes, Maedhros saw something in their depths - a flicker that was definitely not one of grace, wisdom or sadness. It was cold, it was bright, and it was frightening; and for the smallest fraction of a second, Maedhros felt a heavy veil of fog lifting from his mind, allowing his thoughts and feelings to run free, no longer anchored on empathy towards his brothers. This tiny period of time was enough for him to perceive that something was fairly and truly _missing_ from his brothers' account - yet he could not guess what was it. The pieces refused to come together for some reason; could it be that he did not pay enough attention? That he erred? Or could it be... maybe...

Another disturbing feeling seized him: the nagging sensation of not seeing something that was right in front of his eyes, the feverish wish to remember a thought that was just outside his grasp. The aftermath of a forgotten impression, an important memory still lingered in his fëa, but he could not ease it back into his mind. Perhaps it was something about Thingol - but how on Arda would Thingol fit into this story...?

Maedhros stole an uncertain glance at Maglor; his eldest brother was leaning towards Celegorm and Curufin and took their hands, unshed tears glistening in his wide eyes.

"Oh, Tyelko, Curvo," he whispered, "I am dreadfully sorry for what you had to endure. How could our trust waver in your righteousness! How cruelly misunderstood you were! How badly you must have been treated! Where did you go afterwards? What did you do? O, dearest brothers, when did your fine garments become stinking rags?"

"That is not a story worth telling, Kano," Celegorm answered him with a humble smile. "Snow, frozen rivers, lack of firewood, poor nourishment and wolves - that is what one can expect from winter. But life got better in spring; and last summer was a remarkably rich and beautiful one. We rejoiced on our way here, but circumstances slowed us, and we lost our way as well, once or twice. We had to sacrifice our map halfway to help us light a fire."

"But we are here now," Curufin added reassuringly, "here, under your care; and we have fine cloaks and leather boots to warm us up. We dine at your table and we sleep in your beds. We could not be more grateful for all the help you have to us, dear brothers. 'Tis good to have a warm home in such treacherous times."

Maedhros felt another pang of disturbance in the back of his mind. He could remember perfectly well that Curufin had even refused at first to have a new cloak. He didn't want to be helped, he didn't want to be "lectured and humiliated", as he put it.

_What happened...? Did the long desperate months take their toll, did he merely speak out of wariness, or mayhaps out of great relief that no matter what does he do, no matter what does he say, we, his brothers would still be there for him...?_

_Nay: that sounds far too emotional to be true._

_Something is not right. I have forgotten something..._

"There is a detail I do not exactly understand, Lord Curvo," spoke Counsellor Tyelcano, his voice steady, each of his words precisely articulated. Looking at his stern, expressionless mien, Maedhros perceived with surprise that his eyes were bright with a strange light: determined and furious.

"And what would that be, my good Counsellor?" Curufin calmly inquired, not seeming to notice Tyelcano's silent wrath.

 _"Something_ must have triggered such an indignation among the citizens of Nargothrond", the Counsellor said, his voice still dreadfully calm and collected. "My heart wavers at the thought that you were _so cruelly_ misjudged."

There was a strange edge to his voice.

 _Could it be mockery...? But where would Counsellor Tyelcano find the courage to mock any of my brothers?_ Maedhros thought with rising anger.

"Unfortunately, Lord Counsellor, such scandalous things happen," Curufin lamented. "I cannot explain it any more than you can; but surely, one who is so well-versed in the ways of intrigues and diplomacy as yourself, shall eventually find some sort of explanation."

"Are you perfectly sure, lords of mine, that nothing, _nothing_ happened in Nargothrond that would make you traitors?" Tyelcano inquired.

We failed to protect Findaráto -" Celegorm sighed.

"Nay, Lord Tyelko. Anything _else,_ I mean."

"Anything else?" Celegorm eyed his brother, and once again, Maedhros saw the dangerous flash in Curufin's eyes.

"Nothing else we are aware of, Counsellor," he said a bit stiffly. "I should have probably fought more to make my children see reason; but I decided they were far too mature for that. I let them choose their own way, and though grieving because of their choice, I let them go."

"My interests," Tyelcano said very slowly, very patiently, "lie still elsewhere."

"We cannot think of anything else," Curufin shook his head, almost as if excusing himself for not being able to respond to the Counsellor's question.

"So if we leave the exile of Aran Findaráto out of consideration, nothing of your deeds in Nargothrond would make you traitors?"

"Nothing, Counsellor," said the brothers in unison.

_"And how about being liars?!"_

"Liars!" Maglor exclaimed with indignation. "Be careful with your words, Lord Counsellor! My brothers are well-willing Elves, and knights of honour! How on Arda could they be liars?"

_Liars._

Maedhros shook his head. Why would Tyelko and Curvo be liars? He knew them since their birth, the very spring of their childhood. Surely _he_ would perceive if they lied...? And why would they lie in the first place? Kano said it right: they are honourable.

_But I have forgotten something... something about Thingol...or was it Carnistir, perhaps?_

_Surely, that was Carnistir. I am being ridiculous._

"Lord Counsellor," Maedhros said sternly, "you will excuse yourself in front of my brothers. You have no right to accuse them thusly, especially not after the wrongs they have recently suffered. I am most displeased with your behaviour!"

"Is their power so great over you, my lord beloved?" Tyelcano all but shouted at him. " Are you this easily enchanted?! Do you not see how viciously are you, both of you, being misled?!"

"This was the very first time you allowed yourself to speak to me in such a tone, servant of my House," Maedhros sprang to his feet, eyes alight with fury, towering above his Counsellor like a giant, "and the very last one as well. _Am I understood?"_

"Not if I see your lordship in grave danger," Tyelcano withstood his gaze, though his voice trembled with emotion.

"In that case, I order you to leave this hall. Now."

"My lord..."

 _"Leave!"_  
"Please, Nelyo, spare your wrath from our good old Counsellor," said Curufin gently. "He wishes the best for you."

"Sadly I hear that we have lost your trust and good will, Lord Tyelco," Celegorm added with a sigh, "but such wounds cannot be healed in the heat of the present. With time, I am sure we shall be as good friends as before, and you shall learn to believe us anew."

"Do you not see how cruel you are?" Maedhros turned the whole intensity of his gaze at Tyelcano's ghastly pale face. "Thrice I command you: leave, Counsellor, and avoid my company for the next few days!"

Slowly, Tyelcano emerged from his chair and looked around in the Great Hall, his hands tightening into fists at the two sides of his body. Then with a hiss of breath, he raised his chin, proud and unwavering before his lord. With a swift, fluid motion he drew his sword, and laid it at Maedhros's feet.

"Never my faith and trust shall waver in you, Lord of my home and King of my heart," he said. "If you deem my words and deeds wrongful, I respect your judgement and I shall leave; but for the sake of the countless years I've spent serving your family, Lord Nelyo, I beg you to take this letter, and read it again: read it, as you have read it to Lord Makalaurë an hour ago! Read it over and over, lest you forget what is truth and what is illusion!"

With that, he pulled out a thin scroll of parchment from under his cloak, and he held it out to Maedhros, not flinching before his gaze.

_I have forgotten something._

Maedhros took the parchment, and his eyes widened when he saw the flaking shards of wax around its seal.

It was Thingol's seal, and it was broken.

The message has been read indeed.

"Nelyo, may I...?" Curufin shifted in his seat, a pang of uneasiness in his voice.

"No, lordship," Tyelcano barked at him, "You may not."

"You are being impossible, Counsellor!" Celegorm's eyes flashed with anger. "Curvo only wants to _help him!"_

The waves of shame and indignation that washed through Maedhros's consciousness at these words were almost too much to handle; like many, far too many other times in his life, he felt naked, spoiled, exposed.

"I may be a cripple, if that is what you are implying, brother," he said icily, "but I believe my condition is stable enough to be able to read a letter by myself."

By the time Celegorm perceived his grievous mistake, it was too late; Maedhros wedged the top of the parchment under his goblet, and unrolled it, his eyes running through the text.

And then it all came back to him.

"Nelyo?" Maglor shifted closer to him, allowing himself a feather touch on his shoulder. "Is aught amiss?"

"…now this is a most interesting take on the previously discussed events," Maedhros said after a few seconds of silence (and considered with rueful pride that his voice was not shaking with rage). "I should like you to hear it; especially you, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. I cannot wait to hear what you will say to this."

His brothers' faces were pale, expressionless masks around him.

Maedhros rose, and began to pace behind the table: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Something was trembling in the depths of his being; his head felt excruciatingly hot while his chest and his limbs were freezing.

"Listen, my dear ones," he said, and a grin crept onto his face; a large, scornful grin he could not supress or hide. "Amusing like a bedtime story, this one. Hear me thee!"

He shook out the parchment, and held it out far before himself. His pacing became slower, more controlled.

 _"To Maedhros, son of Fëanor, Lord of the Himring and Warden of the East,"_ he read in slightly accented Sindarin, slowly, dramatically, the way they used to read to each other with his cousin Findekáno when the world was still young and fair, _"Elu Thingol, Lord of the Sindar, King of Doriath and Protector of the Woodland Realm sends his kind regards."_

He paused for a few moments, watchful for the others' reactions. Maglor's breath was caught in a sharp hiss, Celegorm cast Curufin a swift, sidelong glance, and Curufin himself resumed his thrumming on the jewels wrought in his goblet. Counsellor Tyelcano was still kneeling before him, his sword on the floor, his head slouched.

" _I turn to thee in an hour of dire need, for my heart is anxious. The shadow of the Enemy grows, and of late, it seems to have winded its way through the borders of our realms. 'Tis with great sorrow and concern that I think of the heavy losses your kinsmen have suffered of late._

 _I inform you with discontentment that your two brothers, lords Celegorm and Curufin have kidnapped my daughter by pretending to save her, and refused to return her home unless I grant Lord Celegorm her hand,"_ Maedhros read in the same theatrical voice, carefully outlining the words "anxious", "discontentment", "kidnapped" and "pretending".

"How could you...!" Maglor whispered in a horrified voice. "You _lied_ to us! Right to our faces! You – you deceived and enchanted us! Like… just like…"

He could not say _who;_ and nor could anyone else.

" _I did not count on any irreverence of that sort from the proud Ñoldor, and by the laws and customs of our realm, I must thusly deny any future request for a union between our Houses,"_ Maedhros went on reading mercilessly. Later, at the mention of _justice,_ Curufin shifted a little in his seat, and Celegorm buried his face in his hands.

Silence followed his words: deaf, icy, painful silence. Maedhros was struggling with his breath, which came in impatient hisses, his heart drumming like the beat in a war-chant. Hot claws of fury were gnawing at his stomach, and his fist clenched around the thin parchment.

"Shall that be enough for us to finally be able to hold an honest conversation?" He asked. "Or would you like me to read further, and acquaint you with a written testimony from Feredir, messenger of Doriath?"

"Why, Maitimo?" Celegorm whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "Why did you play us for fools if you already knew everything?"

"To corner us," Curufin hissed. "I should have guessed – and we all know what is coming now. Our big brothers, our good brothers, our chivalrous brothers shall name us liars and murderers. You will never understand why we did what we did, and why we wanted to keep it in secret. That was a risk we took; and we did not succeed. Lay a trap for others, and 'tis you who shall fall in it, so the wise say; yet if I ever expected a trap, Nelyo, it was not laid by you."

"Are you still capable of palliating yourself?!" Maglor snapped. "You won't be able to fool us again! Your power may be as great as Atar's; but Atar was wronged and blinded by pain. You, Atarinke, are simply vicious."

"Calm yourself, Kano," Maedhros said sternly. "Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, do you have anything else to tell us? Anything to give us further insight on your deeds – anything _true?"_

"Nothing, my lord brother," said Celegorm in a lifeless voice.

Curufin shook his head as well.

"Hear my doom, then. I have been asked to make a rightful judgement; and judge you I shall, by the laws of the Ñoldor and in the name of our House."

Maedhros made a desperate attempt to ease the dryness of his throat; but there was nothing to be done. The trial, however challenging and unusual, was over.

"Hear me thee, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë from the House of Fëanáro! You have been given an opportunity to freely explain yourselves and acquaint us with everything you have done. You have most cruelly misused that opportunity. The faith that begin to waver in my heart when I heard of your deeds has now disappeared; brothers we may still be, but I trust you not."

Maedhros almost gave a start when Maglor grabbed his hand under the table, and squeezed it so hard he feared it would break. Bracing himself, he ran a soothing finger along the back of his brother's palm, heroically fighting the horrible, burning ache in his chest.

_This must be done, Kano, and you know it. Please do not spoil it with your good-heartedness._

"I give you two opportunities and three days to make a choice. The first one is the following: You shall no longer hold a place in my council, nor shall you be granted with any kind of confidential knowledge. You may own a house of your own in the lands of Himlad, a smithy, a garden, a stable, or whatever else you wish; but the title of lord I take back from you, and you can no longer command any servants. And the second one is the following: your titles you may keep, but you leave this castle in a week, and take no one with you. Horses and provisions you may have, but you cannot come back; and come strife or danger, I shan't protect you, nor shall I take any sort of responsibility for your future deeds. I, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro, have spoken, and you have heard me. Three days henceforth, I shall hear your decisions, and this matter will be over; but now, I have heard enough for today. I bid all of you to leave the Hall. We may still meet at the dinner table."

Maglor was the first to move. He sprang from his chair, and all but ran out the door, shutting it echoingly behind himself. Next in line was Celegorm; he bowed and followed his elder brother with long, measured steps, his face sinking back to indifference.

When Counsellor Tyelcano rose as well and took his sword, Maedhros caught his arm, and looked him deep in the eye. After a few moments of fruitless struggle with words, he bowed to kiss his forehead.

"Thank you, wise one," he whispered.

"That, Lord Nelyo," Tyelcano said bitterly, "was not a counsel willingly given."

"It served us well nonetheless. Go, my dear friend, find yourself some rest."

It was more of a command than a simple request; and Counsellor Tyelcano knew him enough to feel the difference. He bowed and went on his way, swiftly and silently.

Only Curufin remained now. He sat in his chair still, his face was buried in his hands.

And his shoulders were shaking.

Maedhros had never seen Curufin cry before; not even when the Trees were destroyed. Not even when their Grandfather was lying on a bier in the empty treasure-hold of Formenos. Not even when the ships were burned.

Not even when their Atar evanished into a pile of ash.

"Curvo -," Maedhros choked, not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say. His mind felt strangely cool and collected when he placed his hand on his brother's shoulder; but the hand trembled.

"I told Erenis that she was useless, Nelyo," Curufin whispered, "that she was good for nothing. And I told Tyelpë that he was only used in Nargothrond for his talent. That no one really loved him. I thought I was lying to protect them – that was what I tried to tell myself afterwards. But I am not sure. I cannot be sure. I do not notice when I am lying anymore."

"Yet today, you did notice."

"I want you to understand."

Curufin raised his head, swallowed, looked him in the eye. Glistening trails of tears were running down his cheeks, yet his voice was calm.

"I saw the look on your face when we met, and I thought you _knew._ So did Tyelko. But when you offered us cloaks, when you were kind with us, when you cared for us, fed us and took us home with you, we were starting to have our doubts. I see now that it was planned as well; I hold no grudge against you for it - it had to be done. But at the moment, we could not believe that you could show such an amount of care any empathy towards us, if you… if you truly knew."

"If you suspected I already knew everything, why did you lie?"

"Because I was certain you, too, would banish us as soon as acquainted with the entire monstrosity of our deeds. It seemed only a matter of time. I am telling you this only because… because Tyelko was always against it. He wanted to be honest. I insisted. I did my best to convince him, and finally, I succeeded. I thought that at least if I tried to win you with my voice and succeeded, we might stay here until the truth is revealed. I did not want to go back to the wilderness; and if my honour was worth a few weeks of food, calm and comfort, I decided to pay that price. I was wrong, Nelyo; I did not trust your good-heartedness. It never crossed my mind that you… that you would let us stay here if you knew. You cannot imagine how relieved I am, now that I heard the choice I must make."

"You thought I would banish you?" Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment. "That I'd let you wander the wilderness on your own? You think I could live with that?"

"I could no longer trust hearts or forgiveness, Nelyo. Not even yours."

Curufin's voice died out for a few moments, and another wave of tears sprang from his eyes. When he found his voice again, it was very low and very soft, almost pleading.

"I… the judgement is up to you, brother, but Tyelko does not deserve it. He was against me."

"You convinced him."

"I have certain powers to convince people, Nelyo, and I am not afraid to use them, as you have just witnessed," Curufin said, and Maedhros was amazed at the stern vigour of his voice despite the tears flowing down his cheek. "Also, I am splendidly capable of exploiting Tyelko's passion or anger when it rises. He is easily exposed, and though I would never do him deliberate harm, he has always been a great help for me to pursue my wants and needs."

Maedhros's eyes widened at the confession; but if ever, then _now_ he believed Curufin was telling the truth.

"He is everything I have now, Nelyo, and his fate is in your hands: better than mine, at any case. Please, if there is any warmth left in your heart towards us, let him stay, and stay in honour! He does not deserve to lose his lordship, nor your trust. I know he shall be happy dwelling in your halls; please let him be useful as well, that is all I ask for."

"What about yourself?"

The dull ache in his chest was almost unbearable. The Warden of the East and the Lord of the Himring were nowhere now; the stern and fearsome Lord Maedhros was reduced to a lonely, lonely soul who wanted nothing else but to embrace the brother he could not trust.

 _Just ask for my forgiveness,_ he pleaded soundlessly. _Admit your regret_ , _Curufinwë. Just let yourself cry properly, and I shall gladly fall in your trap again, and you may deceive me. Just do not leave!_

And bitterly, Curufin laughed.

"You know that I am a proud person, Nelyo. I would freely throw my honour away for comfort; yet I would throw my comfort away for an empty lordship without a second thought. Now go, big brother, fetch yourself some wine before you faint. It must be horrible to live with titles like Warden of the East, Enemy of the Enemy and Head of the House of Hopeless Morons."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 2.
> 
> 1) This is the opening scene of Maedhros's POV, but due to the course of events - as you may have noticed -, his usually very sharp and lively consciousness was now considerably dulled; so you could say that Maedhros, for the first time we encountered him as a central character, did not really feel like Maedhros (at least, not my version of him).
> 
> 2) The concept of Curufin's enchantment was strongly inspired by the following passage from 'The Two Towers' (don't try to tell me there's no connection between him and Saruman…):
> 
> "Suddenly another voice spoke, low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment. Those who listened unwearily to that voice could seldom report the words that they had heard; and if they did, they wondered, for little power remained in them. Mostly they remembered only that it was a delight to hear the voice speaking, all that it said seemed wise and reasonable, and desire awoke in them by swift agreement to see wise themselves. When others spoke, they seemed harsh and uncouth by contrast; and if they gainsaid the voice, anger was kindled in the hearts of those under the spell."
> 
> / The Lord of the Rings, Book III, Chapter X.: The Voice of Saruman /
> 
> 3) About Curufin calling Orodreth a "slow dullard", which sounds a tad too rude: excerpt from the Lay of Leithian, Canto IX [one of Laerthel's favourite passages detected]:
> 
> Curufin spake: 'Good brother mine,  
> I like it not. What dark design  
> doth this portend? These evil things,  
> we swift must end their wanderings!  
> And more, 'twould please my heart full well  
> to hunt a while and wolves to fell.'
> 
> And then he leaned and whispered low  
> that Orodreth was a dullard slow;  
> long time it was since the king had gone,  
> and rumour or tidings came there none.


	10. Trisemes and Ladders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is a bit special because it doesn’t form one entity, nor one arc: for the first time in this story, the POV is shared between two characters. Moreover, the text is made of small fragments: though each of these are very important, the entirety of this instalment may seem a bit messy. I’m not entirely satisfied with the outcome (as usually), but I really do love every fragment in this chapter (especially Erestor’s part, oh my gosh. Beginnings of character development detected).  
> Also… this is mainly a political drama, but that doesn’t mean the characters don’t face personal crisis or don’t have simple, everyday problems (which, after a certain time, can grow distressing even for the finest Elves…). This is one of those chapters where such things happen.  
> I am very willing to answer your questions / concerns on both appearing and reappearing characters :)

_The storm was raging._

_Terrible, maddening coldness crept up his arms and legs as he struggled along some invisible path, buried deep beneath a winter’s night: onwards, always onwards. Snowflakes were veiling his vision, completely blocking it from time to time. The howling wind picked them up and threw them into his eyes, the frost scratching his skin like tiny claws running over the trails where his tears of panic were streaming down. His hands and knees were becoming numb, but he pushed himself stubbornly to his feet whenever he stumbled, still trying to look around with the desperate determination of one whose mind is fully set upon his mission. Blurred shadows were dancing around him as drifts of snow glimmered in the night: pitch-black brushstrokes on pale silvery canvas._

_And there it stood. The tall creature awaited him afront the wings of an open gate, watching, listening, as if it had been there ‘ere the very youth of the world; its face remained veiled, yet its grey eyes were measuring him steadily. There was an eerie light shining in them: the light of Aman mingled with the cold fire of madness, or so it seemed to the watcher._

_The shadowy figure did not enter the gates, nor did it attempt to cross the distance between the pair of them; and as in each and every one of his dreams, Laurefindil heard the impending doom echoing in his mind._

_“He who walks in starlight does not flinch,” chanted the all too familiar voice of his nightmares.  “He hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks; and on he wanders, and on he wanders, but a dead end awaits. The gates are closed. Will you open them, Lord of the Golden Flower? Or will you let the world wither?”_

_This was the first time he heard himself openly addressed, and he shivered at the sudden impact. For the fraction of a second, he saw – or thought he saw – a dimly lit room, thick green curtains and a wide desk full of parchments; then a table loaded with a fine meal and shy sunlight dancing on the plates. Then everything went black as ink, black as the Void beyond the Circles of the World, and the brave Captain of Ondolindë felt himself diving deeper and deeper into despair._

_It felt like falling into a pit. The world was suddenly shattered into pieces, into smoke and senseless ruin. Laurefindil screamed, lost his balance, and reeled into the incorporeal void beneath his feet._

_And then, in a moment of utter despair, the shadow sprang forth._

_The shady figure leaned into the whirling darkness around him, and held out its hand. Amidst dread and hollow emptiness Laurefindil caught it, wrapped his frozen fingers around his saviour’s wrist. Ice and frost ran along his nerves: an unpleasant, tingling feeling that made him feel very much alive._

_It was only a matter of a second; a matter of a heartbeat, and a new vision pervaded his dulled senses. He saw a field at the dawn of spring, green grass and foggy hills; he saw a trail of black blood flowing down a gentle slope; he saw a red cloak flapping in the wind, fleeing from approaching riders._

_And a silent figure he saw: an Elf sitting upon a rock, surrounded by the sour smell of earth, his shoulders slumped, his eyes hollow and empty. His face spoke of grief and utter despair._

_Laurefindil knew that face._

_Suddenly, he felt a gentle breeze caressing his nape. He turned his head, and the shadow was standing right next to him, sword in hand._

_Laurefindil screamed._

 

**The Captain’s Quarters in the Royal Palace of Ondolindë, FA 467, the second day of Víressë**

Lord Laurefindil, Head of the House of the Golden Flower, Captain of King Turukáno’s Guards and Marshal of the Armies of Ondolindë woke up on the floor next to his own bed, covered in sweat, the covers a snow-white mess around his heaving chest. Morning light was wafting inside his bedroom across the heavy curtains and giant shadows ran along the walls, shifting softly from one side to the other as the breeze played with them. Outside, Anor’s golden light resumed its merry hide-and-seek with the vagarious clouds of spring skies, yet Laurefindil’s spirits seemed to stubbornly retire into the darkness they’d emerged from only a heartbeat before.

 _If only there was some way – any way – to stop this struggle_ , he thought. To his great dismay – and perhaps shame – he was still panting. _What on Arda is the meaning of these dreams?! The Gates are closed – but 'tis not within my power to open them. And why would I? Why should I? This is absolute madness. Irmo, Lord o' Dreams, take these visions from me, I beg thee!_

 _And Tyelkormo,_ his whole consciousness wailed. _Why did I have to see Tyelkormo in such a state? Could this dream be by any means real? Could this cruel Shadow haunt him, just as it haunts me…?_

“No!”

Laurefindil sprang up, draped his nakedness in a blanket, and proceeded into his bathroom in a soldierly march, hands tightened into fists.

“It was only a dream,” he said aloud, eyeing his reflection in the mirror. “A meaningless vision created by my imagination, sewn together from the grief and distress in my soul and my underlying thoughts, the ones seldom voiced or even acknowledged. These visions have nothing to do with reality. And _Tyelkormo_ – I only saw Tyelkormo because I mentioned him the other day, and he’s been secretly occupying my thoughts since then.”

Laurefindil could hardly expect his reflection to speak up and answer while he remained silent, yet after a few seconds of apprehensive silence, he concluded:

“There is no cause to feel concerned – it was a dream, and only a dream. Everything is all right with me.”

 _It is not particularly all right to converse with myself loudly in front of the mirror, though_ , he admitted. He’d never felt the need before to justify his inner voice such a way; not even when a lifetime ago, he’d first received a position of leadership and was suddenly expected to regularly deliver speeches before his inferiors.

 _I’ve never had such nightmares in my life, not even after the Light of Valinórë perished_.

Slowly, Laurefindil closed his eyes, then calmed his breath. _Inhale, exhale._ Soon, the mad pounding of his heart was reduced to a soft, steady rhythm of a drum, and his consciousness cleared; yet his thoughts immediately turned back to the shadowy figure, now a constant element of his visions.

_It has grey eyes. I have never noticed that before._

_Why would I care, though? Grey eyes or not, the Shadow is a product of my own imagination as well. It has never existed, and never will. It is the symbol of something, some fear or struggle I have deep within me._

_If I could only understand myself better...! Could the explanation truly be as easy as Ecthelion suggested? Could it be that this Shadow incarnates my own grief, or my feeling of guilt...?_

_Yes, such are the possible answers to this riddle. And nothing else._

Laurefindil sighed in irritation. If the visions would not let him be, then he would not sleep. Eventually, he or the dreams shall have to yield; either he will fall asleep and see them through, or he will exhaust himself to a point where no dream will be able to wake him. He was Captain of the King's Guards and Marshal of the Armies, after all; and his duties and occupations could not be overlooked because of this revolving nonsense of a vision.

Laurefindil had tried to fulfil this conviction the night before: he’d picked up the nearest book from his shelf and settled back in bed, trying to convince himself that the lore of ancient poetic structures and symmetrism held much more interest than any stupid, disturbing nightmare he could possibly have through the night. For a couple of hours, there had been no sound in his wide quarters, save for the low rustle of turning pages; but suddenly came a moment, when Laurefindil closed the book with a soft thump. It was all over – he read it, he swallowed it whole. Poetic structures and quantitive verses were chasing each other in his weary mind, and the back of his head was pounding.

Considering the issue thoroughly, he could conclude that it was almost pounding iambically.

The Lord of the Golden Flower was _being assaulted by legions of fury,_ as his friend Ecthelion (who tended to hold chiselled words in an overly high esteem) would possibly have said, and he would have been right: Laurefindil had had enough. His nightmares were now constantly interrupting his rest and they were becoming to drive him mad; they made his days a turmoil and his nights an agony. He knew he had to put an end to their onslaught, once and for all. Only, he did not have the slightest idea _how_ to accomplish that.

_Or did he…?_

Laurefindil’s perturbed thoughts turned to the lowest drawer of his nightstand, hidden in which there was a small flask: Voronwë's gift from his last great journey a few years ago. The mariner refused to speak about the land he brought the small bottle from, and Laurefindil was not sure, either, if he wanted to know what kind of people had made the drink it contained: a particularly effective mixture between strong alcohol and sleeping draught. Those who tasted too much of it were bound to suffer the impact of the former, while those who used it within bounds could enjoy the latter’s qualities.

Laurefindil’s first encounter with the swill had been a stormy one: though Voronwë _did_ warn him and Ecthelion not to drink more than one sip, apparently, they did not take the advice seriously enough; and dawn found the pair of them kneeling behind the parapet above the Caragdûr, hoping that the surroundings of the dark crevasse were as empty and avoided as always so no one would witness the struggle of two mighty lords emptying their stomachs as green boys.

Laurefindil remembered the moment when he had tasted the drink, tentatively at first, feeling the clean, burning bouquet lurking in the liquid. Eventually, he had become bolder and took a large sip; and that proved to be his downfall for that night.

The world had started to twirl slowly, the colours had faded, the sounds had hushed around him. He had become clearly and utterly drunk in no more than a few minutes, but that was not the only effect the mysterious drink had had on him: his senses were dulled and his thinking slowed down, his breathing becoming dawdling and steady, then he fell asleep in a haze. A blissful dream he’d seen afterwards, completely devoid of shadows, snow, withering flowers… and Tyelkormo.

 _All I want is to get some undisturbed rest,_ Laurefindil sighed. _Is that too much to ask?_

His hands opened the lowest drawer almost by themselves.

~ § ~

**_The Royal Library of Ondolindë, the third day of Víressë_ **

"Come on," Erestor gritted his teeth, and prayed to any Vala above for his hand to reach _just a little_ further. "You are the next Lord of the Fountain, you can do this..."

"May I be of any assistance, young lord?"

Erestor almost fell off the ladder when he heard the intruder’s voice, and he looked down to see no one less than Counsellor Lómion smile reassuringly up at him.

"I...yes, _cundunya,"_ Erestor bowed his head. "I wish to reach a book, but I am not tall enough."

"Nay, _winyamo._ The ladder is too short. You are not the first to complain."

Erestor pulled himself off to the left side of the great wide ladder as Lómion climbed swiftly up next to him, his hand stroking the rootlets of the books at the top.

"And which one did your lordship wish to read?"                 

"The first of the great annals," Erestor pointed, his voice barely even hiding his excitement.

Lómion's hand abruptly stopped.

"A yearbook?” He gazed suspiciously down upon Erestor. He was smiling still, yet the youth could see the surprise in his dark eyes. "Are you trying to tell me that the small book of bawdy poetry just next to it holds nothing of your interest?"

Erestor's face turned to a deep chade of crimson.

"I promise, _cundunya,_ that I did not see it. 'Twas the yearbook I wanted, and from the beginning."

For a moment, Lómion’s intent, almost obstrusive gaze turned upon his face with its full focus, and Erestor felt as if his heart was being read like an open book.

"I believe you," the Counsellor smiled mysteriously, "though I could not be more surprised… and impressed.” With that, he lifted the thick book and handed it to Erestor, who, despite still being deeply embarrassed, smiled gratefully at him.

 _"Hantanye,"_ he said. "You are very kind, you know."

There was a faint sparkle in those dark eyes, one he could not quite grasp.

“Praise should not spring this easily from your lips, Erestor of the Fountain,” Lómion said effortlessly, “yet I am most pleased to hear that you think of me in such a way."

He slid gracefully down the ladder and Erestor followed him as fast as he could, but the Great Library of the King's Tower still held his gaze. Through seven stories its collection expanded, and each level was furnished with giant bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The two Elves were now standing on the top of the conglomerate; they could see snowy mountain-tops outside the windows in all directions of the compass.

Erestor watched Lómion in silence as the Counsellor packed himself with huge, thick volumes of books and settled behind a desk below the largest window. He was curious what the other was about to start reading, but he didn’t dare to ask. Lómion's straight and confident manners intimidated him in many ways, though the Counsellor was not without patience and kindness – as Erestor had just witnessed, moments before.

And he immediately witnessed in once more, for Lómion patted the chair beside him and called at him, directly at him, at young Erestor of the Fountain.

"Come and sit with me if you wish. There is enough room for the pair of us, and annals are heavy; you may need a table to hold it. Also, you might enlighten me why would you care for such a dry read."

Erestor climbed a few steps, then settled beside Lómion. His armchair was stuffed with cushions, the desk was wide and richly carved. There remained enough place indeed for them both. Erestor placed the book gently on the table and opened it with great respect, marvelling at its small letters and smaller dates, all carefully marked, the margins measured, the most important details underlined with red ink.

"I have always wanted to see annals for myself, _cundunya,"_ he said in barely hidden awe. "My mother told me that everything we see and do, everything of importance and every happening is marked inside them. Annals hold the greatest knowledge on Arda, and my wish is to delve inside that lore; just once and not more, if that is all that the Valar grant me."

"I promise you that whenever your duties shall call you back in this City in times of peace, you'll have both the permission and the spare time to appease your thirst of knowledge," Lómion gave a slow nod. "I'll see to that."

"I would never abandon my duty," Erestor promised. "But I'd gladly spend here any time that is granted, and I thank you from my heart again."

Lómion only nodded; and the next hour passed in comfortable silence. They merely sat beside one another, each minding his own business, yet in some unspeakable, unexplainable, unrecognizable way Erestor felt himself more and more associated with the silent Counsellor.

"You are so wise and gracious, _cundunya,"_ he blurted out suddenly, without any previous hint or warning. "Will you be my friend?"

Lómion placed the book on the table with a soft _thump._ For a few moments, his face remained unreadable, and Erestor felt the flame of shame and panic stirring in his guts.

_What have I done…? One could not, one would not just pat the heir of King Turukáno on the shoulder and ask for his friendship in a voice that implies it has been already granted…!_

Yet a sudden, honest smile lighted up Counsellor Lómion’s features and his eyes met Erestor's.

"I will cherish your friendship," he said in a low voice, "and do so with great honour."

"Truly _, cundunya?"_ Erestor stared at him in awe. "Then the honour is mine."

 _"Meldonya,"_ Lómion corrected him gently. "And yes, truly. I shall be your friend, and protect you from all pitfalls and tumblers of life in court, as long as it is within my power; and I shall pay you visit in the mountain-lands when your training is complete, and you'll be sent back as a guard."

Being sent back was not a thought Erestor cherished; he sought comfort in the peaceful silence they shared as pages were turned and turned still.

"What book is that you are reading, cun... _meldonya?"_ Erestor asked after what seemed like barely a few minutes to him. It felt strange to address Counsellor Lómion that freely, in the most intimate speech mode he knew. Not even with his own Toronar dared he use it every day; and still with Lómion it seemed most right and natural, as if their _fëar_ rejoiced their sudden closeness, approaching each other, observing each other, finding out they were akin.

"The fifteenth volume of our Books of Law," Lómion showed him, let him run his fingers through a passage. "I am currently refreshing my memory on the rules that concern _quendi_ who are – or were – granted passage in our City in times of war and peril. I have a vague feeling I shall need to acquaint myself with their duties and rights before the Great Council of this eve. I like to know things precisely."

"Is this book about duties and rights, then?" Erestor looked at the thick volume that may have held the answer for a question that has been bothering him since the very spring of his childhood.

"Mostly, aye. The fifteenth volume contains all that is necessarily forbidden for the sake of _varnassë_ in our city, and in the meantime, all the _íquista_ we have according to law."

"And is there something in there that precises..." Erestor quickly swallowed the rest of the sentence. "Ah, never you mind, _cundunya."_

"So I am suddenly _cundu_ again?" Lómion's dark eyes held his, and Erestor felt that his friend could see right through him. "What troubles young Erestor of the Fountain?"

"I was wondering," said Erestor, regaining himself, "if there was any law that obliged any son or daughter of Ondolindë... that would now mean myself, indeed... to follow the footsteps of their Atar. If my Atar was a guard, must I grow to be a guard as well?"

"I do not need any book to answer that," Lómion said. "There is no such law, and there will never be. You are free, Erestor, to learn any lore or craft you wish, as well as learn the art of any weapon you desire."

"And," Erestor said, his voice now barely even a whisper, "If _Toronar_ would not allow me to become, for example, a harpist, must I..."

"No one has power over your choice," Lómion stated solemnly. "Not even the King. But your _Toronar_ is a noble lord, and not without generosity. I doubt you would have to confront him... though I believe your eagerness to become a musician might scandalize him as deeply as it astonishes me.”

“I have no such inclinations," Erestor assured him with the ghost of a smile on his face. "It was merely an example."

"Then what is that you would wish to learn?"

"Anything that concerns books," Erestor said enthusiastically. "And parchments. Maybe also languages, and laws, and... any kind of lore that would help me materialize the things I plan... the ideas I have..."

"Ah, _meldonya,"_ Lómion laughed. Erestor had never heard his laugh before: soft and rueful, and yet merry in a way. "I understand your heart's desire. See, that is for the same reason that I've become both a scholar and a craftsman. I have ideas – and Valar know 'tis the best feeling in this world to make them work! Now, as it happens, I barely see the laws I'd have to read, so eagerly does my _fëa_ work to solve the problem of ladders you, among many others, pointed me out! If we make them any longer, they would become dangerous and no Elf could lift them. We could carve some kind of structure to keep them at place, but we'd thusly end up building tiny stairs everywhere, blocking half the library's contents from view."

Erestor remained silent for a while as something dawned on him.

"Out in the mountain-lands where I live," he said slowly, "ladders are pushed and pulled along bars of steel that are anchored in the cliffs. Even in the biggest storm, they stick to the bars, as curtains do to the pelmet. If we could build such a structure here..."

With every word he uttered, Lómion's eyes grew wider and wider.

"...both the ladders and the bars would have to be made from some type of steel, though; maybe decked with wood... do you think that it could work?"

"By the Valar," Lómion said, "this is the most _marvellously excellent_ idea I've heard since I live here!"

"Truly?" Erestor found himself blushing. Lómion was kind, and more patient with him than most. And he only had to tell what he imagined, and his friend understood at once…! Erestor even suspected Lómion could _see_ the eventual result in his mind’s eye just as clearly as he did.

"Absolutely," the Counsellor said. "Wait here!"

He came back with a whole pile of books in his strong arms, and all volumes of law were set aside as they delved into architecture. Lómion knew what he was looking for, and Erestor was very swift and eager to learn. So deep was their devotion for what they had envisioned that neither of them noticed Anor's journey on the sky; and they missed the moment when its golden plate sank amongst the icy peaks of the Echoriath as well.

~ § ~

"Lómion?" Said a stern, yet calm voice from behind the nearest shelf after what seemed like barely an hour to Erestor. "Are you in there, _sellonya?"_

Lómion gave a start.

"Aye, I am here, _Aranya,"_ he said, "am I late already?"

"Almost," said King Turukáno of Ondolindë, and stepped out from amongst the shadows. "What a great relief to find you, child, after today's turmoil!"

"Turmoil?" Lómion raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"Well, if you must know," King Turukáno said, a spark of amusement lingering in his voice, "I have spent this morn in the halls of our beloved Great Master. Apparently, that strange Teler lord, Anardil offended him in some way… and you know Great Master Rog when he is offended. Then I have received a strange report about disturbing voices during the night: some within our walls were apparently interrupted in their rest by screaming. Then to my dismay, I have learned that Captain Laurefindil did not show up for muster today which is most unusual; yet I could not spare the issue enough time and thought while the last preparations for the Council were finished. And _now_ I have an unstrung Lord Ecthelion pacing back and forth across the palace wherever I go because his nephew went missing. Manwë and Varda above, I deeply regret having mentioned yestereve that time hanged heavy on my hands...!"

Lómion could not hold his laughter in any longer; and even Erestor managed a smile as he kneeled before his King and forced himself to speak, in a thin voice that was unlike his own:

"I did not go missing, _Aranya!_ I was here with _cundu_ Lómion the whole time."

 _"For the Stars of Varda, child!"_ Sighed King Turukáno, and to Erestor's great surprise, pulled him to his feet by the shoulders. "Next time think twice before you disappear!"

"I shall, _Aranya,"_ Erestor bowed deeply. _"Ávatyara ni."_

"It is your _Toronar_ who must forgive you," said King Turukáno. In a way, he reminded Erestor of Ecthelion; he was also very tall, dark-haired, wide-shouldered, his eyes piercing grey, his face perhaps too proud, too stern, but not without gentleness. "But tell me, what were the pair of you doing behind this desk all day?"

"Young Erestor came up with a flawless concept on the matter of lengthening ladders," Lómion said. "I shall follow his plans."

"Our plans, _cundunya,"_ Erestor said shyly. "I only imagined it; ‘twas you who made it realizable."

"Indeed?" King Turukáno stepped closer to the table. "And what would that plan be?"

Erestor told him about the bars of steel, timidly at first, but when the King showed great interest in his and Lómion's plans, he eventually became bolder.

"A sensible idea," King Turukáno said when he was acquainted with the entirety of the concept. "It only lacks a way to make the whole structure comely. Perhaps if we crusted it with gold or the noblest kind of silver..."

"A gripping remark," Lómion said, and marked a few words on the side of the parchment. "Would you prefer gold or silver, _Aranya?_ Rubies and sapphires here and there, perhaps? ...or a few ladders made of diamond?" a smile rushed through his face.

"Too slippery," said King Turukáno, his face utterly solemn. Erestor watched them in cautious awe, unable to tell if they were _truly_ jesting.

"As you wish," Lómion looked at his uncle, a spark of great interest in his dark eyes. "Now, _Aranya,_ shall we proceed to the Great Council?"

"We still have half an hour to converse about metals and ladders, if we must," King Turukáno said, "but I would prefer we left such enriching conversations for the morrow. It would now be best to go, Lómion.”

“As my King commands,” said the Counsellor. Silently, Erestor watched as their glorious plans were set aside, and Lómion cast a last glance upon a paragraph in a law-book. For the smallest fraction of a second, he felt a burning, aching desire to follow his friend and his King into the throne room and witness the Great Council; and in that same fraction of a second, Lómion held his gaze.

 _“Aranya,”_ he said suddenly, his voice low, yet shrill. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Always, Lómion,” said the King softly. “You were not appointed Counsellor for nothing.”

“I am relieved to hear that,” amusement was lurking in Lómion’s voice. “Now, my King… I must tell you that planning and construction are not the only areas where young Erestor showed remarkable talent to me. I believe that for the sake of his personal development as well as for the fulfilment of his ambitions, it would prove most edifying for him to be allowed inside the council room and witness the debate.”

Erestor felt his eyes widen in shock, and his tongue was already forming words of protest: words against this bold statement, this request bordering careless insolence. But Lómion’s eyes met his once more, and in them shone a silent command: _stay still!_

“Indeed?” King Turukáno turned his eyes upon his nephew again, and Lómion held his gaze without even blinking.

“Indeed, _Aranya._ Young Lord Erestor is a rare talent; moreover, I would not ask such a thing from you if I did not see its purpose.”

Erestor’s heart was pounding in his throat. He’d done nothing to deserve this. What did he do to gain Lómion’s special attentions? What did he do to deserve the consideration of King Turukáno? What did he accomplish to merit his heart’s desire…?

“The Great Council is an event reserved to the governance of Ondolindë and a few honoured guests,” King Turukáno answered. “I cannot grant such a privilege freely.”

“I have never asked you to give it freely, _Aranya,”_ Lómion said smoothly.

“Let it be, then,” said King Turukáno; and then, all of a sudden, he turned to Erestor who could barely hold his commanding gaze.

"Witnessing the Great Council is a reward, and for a reward, one must prove his abilities. Tell me, young lord - how much do you know about the laws of our City?"

Erestor paled; but Lord Lómion, who was standing closely behind the King’s back, gave him a confident smile and nodded.

"I… I know much, _Aranya,"_ said Erestor uncertainly.

“And about heraldry?”

“Almost everything, _Aranya,”_ Erestor stated proudly, finding his voice.

"And how well do you think you could guide our honoured guest, Lord Anardil in the maze of our laws and customs while the Council is held?"

Erestor's heart missed a beat.

"Perfectly well, _Aranya,"_ he jabbered. "I would not miss _one_ reference!"

"What a strange chance," King Turukáno said, laughter in his eyes, "that Lord Anardil would _most fervently_ need someone to guide him this eve...! I see, Erestor of the Fountain, that you are interested in the ways of our city, and you have your own ideas; and this far, I happen to be _very_ fond of those ideas. Consider this offer as a reward of your future service; one of many that are still to be earned. What say you?"

Erestor sank to one knee, and said that he was very thankful, of course. His _Toronar_ had once mentioned something about the Great Council being restricted, and he’d seriously warned Erestor to not even _try_ to slid in. And now he was heading exactly there!

King Turukáno gestured for both him and Lómion to follow, and Erestor complied in awe, his heart filled with sudden mirth and disbelief.

The Great Council had been summoned for the evening; and he, young Erestor of the Fountain was invited by King Turukáno himself.

And the Royal Library was to be refashioned after his design.

  * ~ § ~ §



**Meanwhile in the Captain’s Quarters**

"Lord Laurefindil!"

"Fin?"

"My Lord of the Flower!"

_"FIN!!!"_

"Captain?"

"Fin, you great oaf! Have you moved to Mandos…?!"

 _Laurefindil. Laurefindil. Laurefindil._ The name was hammering in his head like some determined blacksmith, and would not let him be. He pulled the sheets more closely around himself, and groaned disapprovingly.

_I was finally about to get a good night's sleep! Ondolindë is a city of might, a sealed kingdom, a safe place – why couldn't they spare me for a few hours? Or is it just the shadow of my nightmares that calls after me?_

He would not answer the voices either way.

"Captain! Captain, are you in there?!"

When someone started to bang steadily on his door, Laurefindil could no longer pretend to be deaf. Supporting the weight of his body with a trembling elbow, he rose.

 _"What the seventh bloody hell of Angamando is going on out there?!”_ He wuthered with an enraged fierceness he’d not known he had in his heart. _“Are the guards so dim-witted that they cannot even change the watch without their Captain?!"_

There were a few seconds of sullen silence after his outburst, then a familiar, uncertain voice answered him from outside:

"The Great Council has been summoned for this eve, Captain... and King Turukáno commanded my humble self to use the warhammer of Great Master Rog to open your doors if you do not show up in the throne room in ten minutes."

A short silence followed.

"In _that_ case, Lord Warden," Laurefindil spoke up, as calm as his voice could get, "forget what I just said. Ten minutes it is."

"Wise choice, my Captain," said in the ringing voice of Ecthelion from the other side of the door, and Laurefindil could hear the muffled sounds of his amusement.

Slowly, though, the meaning of the words _ten minutes_ started to sink in.

_O, ill fortune!_

_O, deadliest curse of Moringotto!_

_O, cruel mischief of mariners and their gifts_!

Gathering the remains of his dignity, Laurefindil stood and moved to his bathe-chamber. After washing his face thoroughly in ice-cold water, his vision cleared and the iambic pounding of the night before seemed to quiesce in the back of his head. Then he decided it was time to dress; he settled for a light blue tunic to match his eyes, a deep green jerkin and a pair of dark leggings, then he prepared his favourite leather boots. If he was to endure a Great Council this eve, he would at least endure it in the most comfortable way possible.

He was still struggling with the – suddenly very complicated – clasp of his belt, when he heard a soft knock on the door outside.

“Let me in,” came the stifled voice of Ecthelion through the white wood, now soft and gentle, devoid of any sort of amusement. “We still have six minutes and a half to talk.”

“Later,” said Laurefindil as he wound a heavy green-and-golden cloak around his shoulders. Bracing himself, he opened the door and faced his friend. Seeing the extent of concern and suspicion in Ecthelion’s eyes, he concluded that he must look horrible. Yet all his friend said was,

“You seem pale… did you have nightmares again?”

“I am merely bathing in your radiance, _Otorno._ Fear not for me, I am all right.”

Ecthelion squeezed his shoulder lightly. “I shall tell you what you are, Fin – a terrible liar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> On characters:
> 
> Rog is a canon character, mentioned in "The Fall of Gondolin"; but it was me who gave him the title of "Great Master". In Tolkien's writing, he appears as a character of much cruder, harder nature than Elves in general. What we can surely tell is that he was a blacksmith, and a mighty leader of his House.
> 
> This is the first appearance of King Turukáno, and you have no idea how nervous I am about it. And also about Lómion... but my headcanons are strict, and I’m determined to respect them. Feel free to ask questions or raise doubts, though, I like them 
> 
> Quenya (if I left something out, feel free to ask):
> 
> cundunya: "my prince", with cundu meaning "prince" (a poetical expression that befits the courteous manners of the Gondolindrim).  
> winyamo: "youngster"  
> hantanye: "I thank you"  
> meldonya: "my [male] friend"  
> varnassë: "security"  
> íquistar: "requests", here: "lawful rights" -> both varnassë and this word are left in Quenya because they are meant to be juridic terms  
> sellonya: means something like "sister's-son"; an endearment of Lómion Turukáno will sometimes use in the story.  
> aranya: "my king"  
> Ávatyara ni: "Forgive me"  
> Otorno: „sworn brother”
> 
> One last remark: Erestor calling Lómion a prince is a demonstration of the reverential Quenya speech mode. You may remember that Laurefindil called him simply "Counsellor", or "Lord"; that doesn't make Lómion any less than a heir of the King, but since Laurefindil is both older and of higher rank (in the army) than he is, I decided he should skip the title. Erestor, on the other hand, was here meant to switch in and out of colloquial and reverential speech rather awkwardly, because he's still a bit uncomfortable with theeing Lómion.  
> I've been pondering a lot how reverential Quenya amongst the Gondolinrdim (that basically means extra-mega-ultra-reverential Quenya) could be written and used, since #1 I don't have the necessary linguistic knowledge to translate every other sentence #2 I believe the average reader wouldn't approve...  
> You'll get more of these mazy speeches when we actually get to the Great Council. ;)


	11. Bats and Werewolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So finally… a moment I’ve been extremely nervous about. The first Great Council. Special thanks to Anardil for making this chapter better. You, my precious child, are a gleefully shining star in a sky of coal-dark, tragic heroes. :)  
> Erestor’s three-round questioning of Anardil about his knowledge is a theft from Christopher Paolini. (I’ve expected this reference even less then any of you).  
> With the same amount of love and care as always - enjoy!

_`Such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere.'_

_**J.** _ **_R. R. Tolkien_ **

**XI. Bats and Werewolves**

"Be welcome, Lords of Ondolindë!" the ringing voice of King Turukáno swept through the Great Hall, clear and sharp as a sword-blade. "Behold! The Sun is flashing his golden smile at us as he settles to rest behind icy peaks; it is time for our Council to commence."

"Let the Council begin!" Princess Idril declared in her exquisite treble, which, despite its softness, was clearly audible in the whole immensity of the Hall. King Turukáno rose from his high trone and slowly, pontifically descended seven marble steps. His long strides were aimed at the gleaming pulpit in the middle of the hall, surrounded by wide seats: each of them reserved to one from the group of dignitaries who were, until now, silently waiting for the King's leave to enter and sit. Now that the greetings have been voiced and the Council officially started, they were approaching in single file, but given the immensity of the Hall – and thus the distance to cross -, it was still about to take several minutes before the first speaker could have his word.

Erestor felt a set of long fingers gripping his shoulder with a strength that almost reminded him of Ecthelion.

“Listen to me, little one,” Lómion susurrated to his right ear. “Lord Anardil is approaching. Do you still feel capable of guiding him through this Council? Now is the last moment to change your mind and leave.”

“I would never leave, _cundunya,”_ Erestor said proudly. “The King counts on me!”

“Well said,” a faint light stirred in Lómion’s eyes. “In that case, I shall now leave you to him. You will accompany him to that seat, at the far side of the Hall. Facing mine. I will be right there if you need me; you’ll need only to look at me, I shall know.”

 _How?_ – Erestor did not dare to ask.

“And remember, child,” Lómion’s voice was low now, very low and very soft, and it made the tip of his ear tingle, “that Lord Anardil is not one of us. He is from _outside_ … and for that reason you shall need to be very careful with him.”

“Is he trying to hurt us?” Erestor whispered back. Lómion’s voice gave a disquieting undertone to the word _‘outside’_.

“The King seems to favor him for some reason; and he is not very likely to cause trouble indeed. He is but a mariner from distant lands… but his eyes and ears are sharp and little can escape them: that much is already clear to me. Things are often not as simple as they seem. Watch him, Erestor, and learn. And be very courteous.”

“Cousin,” came Princess Idril’s voice from behind, “we need to leave. The King is waiting.”

“We do indeed, my princess,” said Lómion, and looking up, Erestor saw yet another kind of light kindling in his eyes. The boy greeted Princess Idril with the finest courtesies he could suddenly produce, and placed a grateful kiss on her ring when it was offered. The princess smelled like roses, and Erestor would have been contented with no more than that fragrance, unmoving, oblivious to the passing of time outside his closed eyelids; but Idril only laughed, and ran her fingers through a particularly unruly strand of his hair, and that sensation made Erestor stir.

Lómion was but a ghost in Idril’s light: tall, straight, yet lithe like a willow-tree, his high cheekbones casting a long shadow on his wary face. His eyes were two lightless pools, his lips pressed into a thin line, as if he was trying to keep a whole rush of words from a careless escape.

“Let us go,” was all he said at the end. He offered his arm, and Princess Idril took it.

Erestor blinked, trying to chase a stray hair from his eyes. All of a sudden, a terrible sense of foreboding seized his entire _fëa,_ the wild and consuming desire to right some wrong, unseen and unlooked-for, that had been committed just a moment before. Something felt absolutely, terribly _wrong_ with the way prince and princess had looked at each other, with the way they had walked away, with the way their breath mingled in the heavy air of the Great Hall. Something felt wrong with the colourful array of lords rushing indoors, taking their spaces. Something felt wrong with the absence of his _Toronar,_ otherwise so caring and devoted to him.

“You are being impossible,” Erestor mumbled to himself. “Ondolindë is a safe realm – the last one that is left east of the Sea. There is nothing to worry about. And now your duty is to go and fetch Lord Anardil.”

“I do not quite need fetching, young lord,” said someone behind his back in outrageously accented Quenya. “Yet I appreciate the sentiment.”

Half-amused, half-horrified did Erestor turn around, only to find none other than Lord Anardil smiling leniently at him.

“You - ,” Erestor choked, “you speak Quenya…?”

“I babble, as Great Master Rog has kindly corrected my assumptions.”

“You let us speak Sindarin all along…”

“I found it strangely endearing,” the Teler grinned. “Especially Lord Salgant. He has a little space between his teeth, and when he says _thou_ and _thee,_ it makes a faint whistling sound. Did you ever notice that? Of course you did not. _Thou_ need to be more perceptive, Erestor of the Foun-teen.”

No gloom or dread could have erased the surprised grin from Erestor’s features that moment; and when Lord Anardil furrowed his brows and ordered him to take care of his _mannerz,_ his glee escaped him in the form of an easy, careless roll of laughter that drew quite a number of disapproving looks on the pair of them as they were heading to the seats.

“I… I apologise for my carelessness, Lord Anardil,” Erestor swallowed the rest of his mirth, and bowed. “I did not even greet you in the appropriate manner.”

“Thank the Valar you did not,” Anardil sighed. “I always forget that you are such a cold-veined people.”

“Cold-blooded, my lord?” Erestor tried.

“Yes, yes that. Now – King Turucáno said that you shall indulge me in the mysteries of your customs and heraldry. I cannot wait to hear that.”

Erestor bit the inside of his mouth, lest he’d smile at the pronunciation.

“I would be very glad to guide your lordship in any way,” he said. “Understanding our tongue will help you a lot… may I inquire where did you learn it?”

“You may,” said Anardil, and he leaned back in his seat.

Several moments passed; chairs were pulled around them, legs were trodding the shiny marble, people were approaching and disappearing from view.

“And would you tell me?” Erestor said shyly.

“I would.” Anardil crossed his legs comfortably and knuckled a bit of dirt down from the sleeve of his cloak.

“And… _will you?”_

“I may,” said Anardil, obviously very pleased with himself, “if you only ask.”

“All right, my lord,” Erestor sighed, a little bit out of his patience, “so where did you learn Quenya?”

“Ah, we finally getting somewhere!” Lord Anardil laughed. “In fair Tirion I had learned it, many years ago, when the Trees were still alive and blossoming. I liked to journey in your great cities – those times, I used to look up at the Ñoldor, just as many of my people did. And your tongue – in many ways, your tongue is like mine, Telerin. The older the dialect gets, the less difference you can spot.”

“Indeed?” Erestor started at the strange Elf in interest. “And would you teach me… I mean, please, _do_ teach me a few phrases sometime! If means no burden to your lordship, that is.”

“Any time, young lord,” said Anardil, honestly pleased. Before he could say anything else, though, Erestor stiffened.

“King Turukáno is coming back,” he whispered.

The King was indeed proceeding to take his place in the middle seat; and the rest of The Hidden City's greatest lords were approaching steadily. The banners of the twelve Great Houses of the Gondolindrim were hung from large windows of painted glass, six from one side and six from the other. There still remained more than enough source of light in the Great Hall, though, since twenty-four gigantesque windows were facing the green valley of Tumladen from each long side; but the exposed flags created a shadowy area in the centre of the hall, the rays of the setting Sun filtering mysteriously through the twelve great canvas of various colours, draping the whole length of the table in rainbows.

"Now let us count those lords and spy on them as they cross the hall ceremoniously!" Lord Anardil allowed himself a soft laugh, and no more than a feather touch of scorn in his voice. "Let us look at the banners. I am in dire need of your aid, young Lord Erestor – so do you recognize them all?"

"The first banner is that of the House of the King," Erestor said, his eyes suddenly gleaming proudly. He finally felt to step on familiar terrain. "Moon, Sun and scarlet heart on a blue-white field. Led by the King Turukáno."

"His Highness the King and Regent of _Ondo-lindë, Turucáno_ Nolofinwion, you mean," Lord Anardil expanded unmercifully.

"Yes, Lord, I meant exactly that, but with the right pronunciation," Erestor reprimanded. Before he could get horrified at his insolence, Lord Anardil let out a snort of laughter.

"Very good. Anything else you recognize?"

"The House of the Heavenly Arch. Rainbow, opal and jewelled boss on a turquoise field. Led by the Treasurer, Lord Egalmoth. Next to that, the House of the Tree; white tree in a deep green field with an iron-studded club and slings, led by Chief Advisor Galdor."

"Next to that, the banner of the House of the Golden Flower; a flower and the Sun itself, clad in deep, shining golden in a fresh green field," Erestor declared. "Led by our beloved Captain Laurefindil."

"He doesn’t look quite dashing this eve, does he?” Anardil mumbled. And indeed; the Captain’s face was unusually pale, his strides soldierly and collected. Yet as his eyes met the King’s, he smiled chivalrously and made a small gesture of homage. And as ever, he was walking side by side with…

"Next to the Golden Flower," Erestor said, his voice trembling, "the banner of the House of the Fountain, its blazon a silver fountain with diamonds and a flute."

"Not dramatic at all..." Anardil broke in with a smirk.

"...led by the Warden of the Great Gate, Lord Ecthelion."

"...aye, possibly the only entertaining person in this hall."

"Do you find my _Toronar_ entertaining?" Erestor's gaze was suddenly very intense on the Teler’s face. "My Lord?” He added awkwardly.

"Just watch, and you shall see. Now, any other piece of heraldry I should get acquainted with?"

"The House of the Swallow, last in the line. An arrowhead and a fan of feathers, led by the Captain of Marches, Duilin. And then, on the other side: the House of the Harp," Erestor continued, his voice suddenly lower and his speech swifter, as the lords began to take their seats around the Hall. "Silver harp, laden with tassels of gold and silver, led by the Lord Salgant."

"Always in Lómion's heels, that one," Anardil mumbled. "One would think they are lovers -"

"...the House of the Mole," Erestor went on without intrusion, gritting his teeth against the playfully meant, yet wounding insult against his new friend. "Plain black banner of moleskin, and for blazon, a double-bladed axe. Led by the First Counsellor, Lord Lómion. The House of the Pillar, up next; gleaming silvery white pillar in a blood-red field, and the House of the Tower of Snow, its blazon a tall white tower in a sky-blue shield; also, the House of the Wing, silvery feathers in a light blue field; all three of them led by the brave Lord Penlod.* And then, last but not the least, the graceful House of the Hammer of Wrath: stricken anvil and black iron in a deep red field and a mace, led by Great Master Rog."

"Oh,” Anardil smiled. "Another entertaining person in the hall."

"It is said that Great Master Rog is very fearful once he's angered," Erestor whispered.

"That he is, I assure you. The trick is, do not anger him – so, preferably, do not talk, do not swallow and do not blink in his presence. Ah, and restrain yourself from breathing."

By the look on young Erestor's face, anyone could tell he was not especially reassured; but the time has finally come. King Turukáno settled at his seat, and the Heads of the Houses joined him, along with other lords of the royal household, a group of lesser counsellors, twelve scribes (one of whom took his place right next to the beaming Erestor) and six servants waiting dutifully at each door of the Great Hall.

Still arm-in-arm with Lómion, there also came Idril Celebrindal, Daughter of the King and Princess of Gondolin, her stunning, piercing beauty smuggling a smile on Anardil's face and making Erestor blush again. Prince and princess were seated at the two sides of the King; and Idril greeted all newcomers with that silent, discreet but majestic politeness Erestor so greatly admired in her. Effortlessly she sat, throwing a few strands of golden hair behind her slender shoulders, her gaze fixed intently on her father's face.

Then Lómion stood; and he looked around in the Great Hall, bathing in the attention of many different eyes.

"Well met, lords and friends!" Lómion said with a disarming smile, gesturing widely towards everyone seated. "Thank you for coming; our Council has begun and we have grave matters to discuss."

There was a choir of clearly declared "well met, _cundu_ Lómion"-s, and Erestor caught the glance his _Toronar_ sent towards Captain Laurefindil. He saw sadness in it, which was mingled with uncertainty and deep concern.

He did not even notice him, Erestor!

 _Something has gone awry,_ Erestor felt with every fibre of his being. But Ecthelion's glance wandered off the Captain before he could be sure what he saw; and the Council started.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Anardil could not have been more impressed with the scribe. Valar, he was writing fast, and that _fast_ meant a speed he'd never experienced before. The mute, solemn Elf was sitting next to young Erestor, a mere two seats away from him, plume and planchette in hand with a billowing roll of parchment hanging from it; which was becoming entirely covered in his small, elegant tengwar. Anardil cast a glance at his notes every few minutes, realising that instead of writing only 'mole' or 'tree' as might have been the custom in such situations as a Grand Council, the fellow was scribing so fast he actually had the time to mark "First Counsellor Lómion" or "Chief Advisor Galdor" (or F.C.L. and C.A.G. after a few hours, but that seemed impressive as well). Anardil could not help but think that at the end of the Council, King Turukáno was about to hold in his hands the most detailed account ever prepared in _Ondo-lin-de_.

Anardil’s thoughts and eyes, though, were already deflected off the scribe at the very beginning of the Council; when, after a flow of formal greetings, _kundu_ Lómion declared the aim of the day's meeting in his shrill intriguing tone. The Counsellor had indeed made an effort to fit into such a lordly company, Anardil could say; his slender figure was entirely covered in black cloth, but here and there a fine, palely gleaming hauberk showed from under his garments. His hair was also carefully braided and his eyes were gleaming with a fierce passion that was known to be a flavour of the High Elves. His speech was flowing clear and elegant, and after several minutes, Anardil had to make a tremendous effort to remember he was not supposed to let Lómion convince him.

The Counsellor was only introducing the subject, but Anardil could already sense the hidden message behind his words: _hear me, Lords of Might; we can only spare ourselves the monstrosities of the Enemy if we remain hidden, undiscovered, closing our gates in front of the world; letting no one in and no one out_.

It appeared, though, that several of the Leaders of the Houses were already familiar with some morsels of the events, and showed deep interest in the subject. Even Ecthelion, who otherwise held Counsellor Lómion in a particularly low esteem (as far as Anardil could see) listened to him intently, not missing a word. Lómion explained in details how he had been woken by the Great Eagle Thorondor, a few weeks ago, who had only granted him two sentences for a start: _I need to speak with King Turukáno_. And, _The Enemy has been rused_.

At this statement, a wave of joyful cheering rose around the table, but all sound ceased immediately when King Turukáno raised his hand.

"This morning," he said severely, "I have been told the whole story, as they recount it beyond our borders. Listen to me closely, Lords of my Court; for never in your lives have you heard such a tale. It raises grave questions and gives answers to unasked ones; and that is the reason why I summoned you here today."

At this point, Anardil reclined in his chair, let his shoulders loose, his piercing green gaze fixed on the King. His instincts told him to pull his limbs tense, to goggle his eyes, trying to elevate his concentration with every inch of his body, but his _fëa_ knew better. Not wanting to seize entire control on his muscles, he let all information flow through him. The Council was meant to be long, and he could not let himself waste all his energy before it came to the interesting part - debate.

And thus Turukáno Nolofinwion, King and Regent of The Hidden City of Ondolindë rose to speech and the white walls of the Great Hall drank eagerly in the deeds of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel, as they were told amongst the Free People of Beleriand a year after they had been done – a tale the silent scribe carefully captured, word by word, in his small orderly hand.

~ § ~

_Lúthien was the daughter of King Elu Thingol, lord of the Sindar, and Queen Melian the Maia, rulers of the Kingdom of Doriath; and Beren Erchamion was a mortal man, son of Barahir, who had fled from the deadly Dagor Bragollach. By accident had they met each other in the forest of Neldoreth, and Beren had laid his eyes on Lúthien, and he had loved her, and gave her the name 'Tinúviel' that stands for 'Nightingale' in the Elven Speech of Beleriand; and Lúthien was also willing to give her heart to him. But the King Thingol thought Beren unworthy of the love of his daughter, and thus he set an impossible task on Beren that he had to achieve before he could wed Lúthien: Thingol wanted Beren to get him one of the Silmarili, the wondrous Jewels that Fëanáro Finwion had wrought with his own hands, and Moringotto the Great Enemy had stolen them, and kept them in his fortress, in Angamando, wrought in his own black crown._

_And thus Beren departed, and Lúthien followed him later, though Thingol had forbade her to do so. And it happened that Beren arrived to the Kingdom of Nargothrond, where King Findaráto ruled his faithful and worthy people; and two sons of Fëanáro, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë also lived there and were held in high esteem in the Council of the King. Beren had told the King Findaráto what befell him and asked for his aid, making him remember the Oath of friendship he had once sworn for Beren's sire. And King Findaráto agreed to aid him, though he was followed by no more than ten of his warriors; for it is said that when the lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë learned Beren's aim, they decided to seize kingship for themselves; and they planted a great fear in the hearts of those living in Nargothrond, and thus very few were willing to follow their rightful King._

_And so Beren Erchamion, King Findaráto and the ten faithful warriors departed to Angamando; they were disguised as foul Orcs, but they had been discovered and thus imprisoned in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, left to a horrible death. It is said that they were chained with cruel iron, and one by one eaten by a werewolf that was kept in the dungeons; but one day, when only Beren and the King remained, Findaráto broke his chains and fought the werewolf with his two bare hands, and fought so fiercely that they both died._

_Ill fate tormented fair Lúthien also: for she left his father's halls to follow his beloved, but was captured by the lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë who hunted in the woods, and the bards sing that the lord Tyelkormo became enchanted with Lúthien's beauty and he wanted to take her as a wife. But lo! Huan, the terrible Hound that had been following the Lord Tyelkormo's steps all his waking life, forsook his master and rescued Lúthien; and together they fled to Angamando, to find Beren. It is said that Huan the Hound defeated all the terrible Werewolves that remained in the fortress; and he fought the evil Sauron himself who took the shape of a wolf and thus attacked him. Then Lúthien freed his beloved and took ownership of the evil fortress; but Sauron escaped in form of a bat._

_Beren's heart was weary of the road, but he did not give up. To Angamando he wanted to return, willing to fulfill his Oath, and Lúthien swore to follow his steps. But alas! Once more has their way crossed that of the lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, once more did those try to restrain them from the Quest. Beren was wounded by Curufinwë as they fought, but the Sons of Fëanáro were driven off and Beren was healed. And Lúthien used magic to disguise the pair of them; they took the shapes of Turingwethil the Bat and Draugluin the Wolf that Huan had killed, and thus they went to Angamando and stood at Moringotto's throne. Then Lúthien sang a song of magic, and enchantment lay on the Dark Lands and the Black Foe and his court fell asleep and Beren cut one of the Silmarili from Moringotto's crown. But in his pride and valour he wanted to take them all; and when he cut the second Jewel his knife broke and a shard of metal glanced off Moringotto's face and awakened him; and the gate has been barred as the lovers fled, and Carcaroth the terrible Wolf was guarding it, and he bit off Beren's hand and swallowed it with the Silmaril; but the Jewel burnt him horribly, and Carcaroth started to howl in madness and ran, and ran, and fled from the Dark Lands._

_Beren and Lúthien returned to Doriath, and songs of their deeds were sung; and the King Thingol's heart softened, and he let Beren wed his daughter. But Carcaroth in his madness returned to Doriath, and caused enormous damage; Beren and Huan then joined those who hunted for the Wolf. Carcaroth killed the two of them, but before he died, Beren handed the Silmaril to King Thingol, thus fulfilling his Oath, and leaving Lúthien to grieve. And so it happened that one of the Silmarili, the bright Jewels, the Treasure of the Noldor was now in the hands of Elu Thingol of Doriath, and the Sons of Fëanáro knew this – and also knew Moringotto, the Black Foe, who has been awakened, his deadly wrath menacing once more the Lands of Beleriand._

~ § ~

When King Turukáno came to the end of his speech, a long, deep silence followed. The utter stillness stretched out uncomfortably in the Great Hall, reaching even the furthest corner.

"This... this is like some ancient lay from a lost Age," Captain Laurefindil murmured under his breath, seemingly lost in thought and time. His words, though, lingered in the air for long; they echoed relentlessly, from one white stone wall to another and they seemed to become ever louder, finally as if he had been shouting: _lost Age, lost Age, lost Age_.

"My thoughts exactly!" the Great Master Rog said, his firm proud voice shattering the air in the silent Hall like a bellow. "An Elven maiden and a mortal Man in the Enemy's fortress... werewolves and bats... Forgive me my boldness, sire," he bowed before the King, "but this could not have happened - this is impossible..."

"Highness," Lómion said smoothly from behind the curtain of his hair, "I beg for word."

"You need not beg for it, Counsellor," King Turukáno said. "Step forward and speak, for such is your duty."

The Counsellor stood, his slender figure gaping black against walls wrought with marble.

"Highness," he said, holding his head high. "Princess Idril," he proceeded in a much softer tone, and in his eyes a pale spark lighted and went out immediately. "Captain Laurefindil and all my noble lords, hear me now! Did King Turukáno not say that this was the tale that the People of Beleriand told of the noble deeds of Beren and Lúthien beyond our borders? Did he not precise that this was the account of _others_ on what happened? We must not take this tale for granted. There should exist an explication for everything, _everything_ that we have just heard. Only, it takes time to collect the true events. Surely, the Lord Beren and Lady Lúthien must have encountered those terrible beasts that lurk in the Dark Lands, on their way to Angamando. With no doubt, Sauron has attacked them – and I would also say that the lords Tyelkormo and Curufinwë have not welcomed the planned Quest of the Silmarili with open arms. But what we have heard now, is no more than a tale of noble deeds. Captain Laurefindil spoke the truth – this _is_ nothing more than a lay of forgotten Ages, an excellent material for bards to work on. What truly matters in this story is not werewolves and bats, but the fact that this mortal Man _woke Moringotto from his sleep_ in his arrogance and folly and stole a treasure that could provoke war in Beleriand. That _shall_ provoke war in Beleriand, if you ask me! A storm is coming, but together, in peace, within the walls of our City, within our mines and mountains, we shall endure."

 _So here we are,_ Anardil thought, and part of him was bewildered to feel hot fury boil up his veins.

But then, suddenly, something entirely unexpected happened.

"Highness," The golden lord of Gondolin said, his voice illusively cool and formal. "May I have a word?"

"Please do proceed, Captain," said the King.

Laurefindil stood (which seemed to take a much more striking effect than the same movement of Lómion before), shook out his gold-embroidered cloak with a flourish, and spoke, a carefully hidden pang of grief in his voice.

"Highness, and my fairest Princess Idril," he said, not without gloating when he earned a bright smile from the maiden her cousin did not, "and all of you, my lords and friends, hear me now! The Counsellor is right. These events may, or may not have happened as the People of Beleriand tell it. The Eagles have keen eyes and sharp hearing, and little escapes their attention. We shall know everything in time. The Counsellor is right again: Moringotto has been awakened, and Beleriand is in grave danger. And the Counsellor is once more right: within these walls, we shall endure, whatever may come: another Kinslaying, another war, death or cruel flames. But alas! Hear me, Highness, hear me, my Princess, hear me thee, my lords and allies – Counsellor Lómion errs, terribly errs when he says that what matters above all in this story is that we should keep our position and peace. The true question is – when, o King, o Princess, o lords... _when shall we have enough?"_

Captain Laurefindil's voice was suddenly roaring like thunder, a fearful light in his usually gentle blue eyes, threads of gold reflected from the glass-smooth white walls as waves of sunlight rose from his sea of hair.

"The Last Battle, the deadly one, the terrible one, the Dagor Bragollach, the raging inferno that killed a great part of our people and put their homes to ruin – was it not enough? The death of the Lords Aikanáro and Angaráto – was it not enough? The death of High King Nolofinwë himself, when he gloriously fought that demon of darkness – _was it not enough?_ When did the grief in my heart turn to fury and anguish, I cannot tell. We have stayed, we have silenced ourselves, we have endured. The Evil of Morgoth has cowed my heart, as it cowed us all. But now that my friend and brother-in-heart Findaráto, the noble, gentle King Findaráto has been savagely killed, I can stay silent no more! Death, death, _death_ to Moringotto and all those accursed lickspittles of his! No more grief! No more sorrow! We cannot shut our hearts from our people anymore!"

The Captain finished his hot speech with a soft, barely audible gasp, then bowed deep towards the King.

 

"Highness," he said, his voice softening, "forgive me my harsh words. It is not treason I speak. I do not wish to break or lighten the laws of our City, for there is reason and sanity behind them, and your will to me is solid like stone. Nor do I wish to forsake any order or any decision of the Council. Nor do I disrespect your words, Counsellor Lómion! But hear me. I said – and I say it again -, _we cannot shut our hearts from our people._ We cannot let any more of them die. We cannot let Moringotto and his evil servants slowly eradicate the Lords of the Noldor! He is afraid of us, even if he is stronger; we know that. Ha hates us with fervency; we know that, also. King Turukáno, my King, my only true lord, I speak to thee now: there must be a way to act... to do something. Anything that predicts the actions of Moringotto, anything to warn our people that they are in danger. Anything to bring them here in safety, anything..."

Anardil felt that the Captain was forcefully silencing himself before his voice could have the opportunity to betray him and turn into pleading.

"I agree, and verily!" Lord Ecthelion exclaimed. There were other sounds of agreement, and Lómion said nothing but arched his eyebrows.

"Captain," he said in a quiet voice, when all sounds died out. "Do you think our King has no sorrow that plagues his heart? Do you think that the deaths of Nolofinwë, Aikanáro, Angaráto, and now, Findaráto left him untouched? Or any of us? Do you think any of us has ever shut his heart before any of our kin?"

"One thing is thought or belief, Counsellor," Captain Laurefindil retorted, "and another thing is act. We have our beautiful City, a rich and secure place. Do the Noldor of Hithlum deserve less?"

"Such things are not a matter of deserving," Lómion said, "but that of possibility. We cannot guide here hundreds and thousands in a short period of time – and Moringotto, if he strikes, shall strike very soon."

"Highness," Lord Penlod said, "May I speak?"

"Do so," came the quiet word from the King, who seemed reluctant to voice his own thoughts, who was just sitting in that richly carved chair of his, and listening to the ensuing debate.

"Captain, Lord Counsellor," the Lord of Three Houses said, "you speak of battle and death and ruin; but we saw nothing yet that would by any means imply this evidence. The Enemy still has two of the Silmarili. It is not possible that he chooses to let us labour under the delusion that his power dwindles? Is it not possible that the glory of Beren and Lúthien is simply a carefully prepared trap to prove our ruin…?"

"Highness," Ecthelion spoke, "may I...?"

King Turukáno made a small gesture with his hand, allowing the Warden of the Gate to rise and speak.

"It _is_ a trap, lords," Ecthelion said, a proud gleam in his eyes, "there is no doubt. But the trap is not aimed at us – not yet. Moringotto takes great pleasure in making the most valiant ones of the Ñoldor perish, or even killing them himself. It started with the Great King Finwë, continued with Fëanáro, then Nelyafinwë – though there Moringotto failed miserably -, then came Aikanáro, Angaráto, then his Highness King Nolofinwë and now Findaráto. Findekáno is coming next – it shall not stop, unless we open our heart – and gates – towards our own kin."

"You are the Great Warden of the Gates," Counsellor Lómion hissed. "Are you truly fool enough to openly forsake our King's command? We _cannot_ open the gates. We _must not_ risk our own safety, not even for the sake of others! Tell me, o champion of wiseness, what is the use of a wolf's teeth if by some heavenly inspiration, he's determined not to bite with them?"

"To let them glint in the light of moon," Ecthelion said, "and plant fear in the heart of any foe. And now tell me, o idol of truthfulness, what is the use of a deadly sharp sword if rust gnaws at its steel? Who would sing a song about such a blade? Who would count the number of necks it has severed?"

"Would that number thus be changed?" Lómion raised a thin eyebrow.

"Enough of wolves and blades and champions and rust!" Great Master Rog broke in, getting the King’s leave to speak before he could even voice the wish. "If I understand you well, lords, your hearts are troubled. Some of you would act, some of you would wait; and all of you would march to battle without hesitation if that was what it took to defend your own truth. Hear me now, Highness, hear me now, Princess, hear me thee, lords of Ondolindë! I do not know what to believe, and the only thing that shall ever convince me is the command of mine own _fëa._ I deeply hate Moringotto, I mistrust the Sons of Fëanáro and I pity those of Hithlum, surrounded by death and fire. But my heart, too, is troubled; revealing ourselves may prove a terrible mistake. What if Moringotto sees us? What if his spies find a way or another, if they stick to our heels and discover where our City is? What if we open our gates in front of our kinsmen, and thus Moringotto awaits the last moment to unleash his terrible beasts upon us? Trapped among these mountains, our death would be sure."

"We have been dwelling here for what seems like an Age," Ecthelion said gravely. "We cannot hide forever. One day, Moringotto shall discover us as his malicious power grows. It is inevitable."

"Warden," Rog said in his booming voice. "Are you taking me for a coward?"

"I know better," said Ecthelion with a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Very well. Then hear me now: I part Orc-heads from their necks with great pleasure, but above all, I am a craftsman and I shan't chase battle and death if there is still an honourable way to evade it. Why not delay disaster while we can?"

"Wise words from a wise lord," said Lómion. "To seek contact with those of Hithlum while we still cannot exactly know what happened in Angamando would be madness. We must make further investigations with the aid of the Eagles."

"This takes precious time," Laurefindil sighed. "Our only true weapon against Moringotto. He is now unprepared, his vigilance evaded! What a great chance we have! We shan't have it ever again. If we seek contact with our kinsmen, we should seek it _now,_ and without delay."

"What say you, Chief Advisor?" King Turukáno suddenly spoke up. All speech and murmur immediately ceased in the Hall and every face turned towards Lord Galdor who smoothed the foldings of his cloak and looked around before speaking up.

"Turmoil I see, Highness," he stated calmly. "The tale of Beren and Lúthien is unexemplary, and I believe there is much more truth and reality in it than it would seem by first hearing. Nevertheless, we must know what truly happened. Captain Laurefindil does not err when he says acting could prove successful, but _acting_ is a weapon that could easily be used against our own selves. Haste means fear and uneasiness, and Moringotto knows that. To chase desperate risk would only feed our insecurity; and _that_ would bring evil upon us faster than Vairë weaves. Wisdom and tarriance are not the same, yet sometimes related; and I would not risk letting any friends and loved ones of King Findaráto to the battlefield while the memory of their loss is still so deep and fresh in their _fëar._ There is nothing deadlier in this world than love turned to hatred by anguish and pain."

Anardil saw the glance that Galdor sent towards Lómion while he uttered the last sentence, and he wondered why did the Counsellor flinch; but his attention was quickly averted by King Turukáno, who spoke up anew.

"It seems so that the Council has decided to make further investigations about the events in Beleriand; to that I give my consent. In a month we shall reunite again and discuss the matter of aiding our kinsmen. Now, if none of you has any other comment on this matter, we shall move on.”

Anardil felt his body moving on its own accord: he stood.

“Your Grace,” he said, doubtlessly in a very un-Quenya-like phrasing, “I find that I have quite a few comments on this particular matter; and sadly, none of them are pleasant.”

“We would be all delighted to hear what you would say, Lord Anardil,” said King Turukáno.

Anardil looked around in the immense Hall, the pale and silent sea of faces, the gleaming, starry eyes that were fixed upon him. He almost burst out with laughing when he spotted the look Ecthelion and Laurefindil exchanged upon hearing him speak their tongue. Voronwë’s betrayed gaze, however, seemed to burn holes in his back.

_He’s such a sensitive fellow – might even feel personally hurt at the revelation …_

“Counsellor Lómion, you said that you needed more information,” Anardil spoke up with an effort. “I could provide you with that.”

The intensity of the attention he received suddenly seemed to increase.

“From a soft armchair, one might think about the murder of King Fin…rod as some nursery tale,” Anardil commenced, the sharp sonants of reverential Quenya breaking upon his tongue. “Yet I can tell you that the tales are true – he was lacerated by a werewolf, slowly, piece by piece. This I know; for I was there, no more than a few cells away, and I heard him scream.”

With that, he folded back the sleeves of his tunic, showing raw, purplish black shackle-marks on his wrists.

“I have been imprisoned for roughly a few months; yet that was enough for a lifetime. There were many thralls, both First-and Secondborn in that accursed fortress. Sauron liked to play his wicked games with us; and I can also confirm most stories about bats and werewolves. You are very welcome to laugh, lords; or you may say that I am exaggerating, or am still blinded by fear. That is not true. No one knows all productions of Sauron’s vigilant malice, hidden in Tol-in-Gaurhoth; yet his hand reaches far enough at all times to turn the life of the average traveller into a living hell.”

“You may think that one should _seek_ trouble to fall in such an obvious trap, and to be imprisoned. That is no longer true, my King and my lords; not since the Battle of the Cruel Flames. All sense of authority, all kind of order we knew has disappeared entirely from Beleriand. All that remain are some assailed islands, the last ones that stand still. There is the Kingdom of Hithlum, that of Nargothrond, that of Doriath, that of _Ondo-lindë_ ; and there is Himlad in the East; and the Isle of Balar in the far South. That’s all. And you know what is in between? Died out, dried out plains; burned and sacked villages; vile troops of Orcs that grab you by the wrist, strip you from weapons, coin and even smallclothes, then chase you along the wastelands, as naked as you were born! One can no longer ride from Nargothrond to the Falas without having to fear for their life; the everyday traveller shuts his eyes, grinds his teeth, grabs a knife and moves on, hoping that his head will not be severed from his shoulders anytime soon, and his entrails rest at their rightful place. Beleriand has become a vile land, a dangerous land to live. Orcs are becoming more and more numerous: they are feasting on our wives and children, taking captives, shooting the horses down. And as for my humble self… at first it was Fëanáro who stole my ships, now it’s the thralls of Sauron; and by the looks of ‘em, I swear if Fëanáro came back from Mandos and demanded a few other ships, I’d rather give them all to him full-heartedly and even apologise for the delay!”

Anardil saw more than one hidden smirk aimed at him.

“If you ask me, King Turu- _káno_ , my lords,” he said, finally getting more than half of the cruel sonants right, “’tis now that you should seek contact with your kinsmen. Moringotto is probably still lying upside-down in his chair, trying to figure out what on Arda just happened. Perhaps not even the Seven Sons are in motion. You have a silent and eventless moment – _now._ You won’t be having it again anytime soon. And if you are fearing possible resistance, just remember that Orcs these days are used to lonely, helpless wanderers who would rather flee from them than get into a fight. These are not well-armed or disciplined troops, only witless rogues whose mouths starts to water at the first jingle of coin. I am no lord (even though you call me one) and I have little knowledge of politics and diplomacy and warfare and all those clever-sounding arts that make our lives so difficult; yet I feel that things cannot go on as they do now. Something has to happen; and if you do not seize the initiative, it might as well be the Enemy who takes it.”

“Seldom do we hear such deep wisdom draped in such raw and simple wording,” said Princess Idril suddenly. “I, for one, tend to agree with you, Lord Anardil.”

“We cannot rely immediately on someone not skilled in warfare, however wise their suggestion might be,” Counsellor Lómion said.

“He might be a slightly annoying fellow,” said Great Master Rog, “but Lord Anardil _does_ know more about the current state of Beleriand than we do.”

“Was that a compliment, Master?” Anardil could not help but grin.

“I believe,” Ecthelion broke into the reproach before it could have been voiced, “that there is another person in the Hall who knows much about recent happenings. Lord Voronwë has been particularly silent for the last few hours; I believe it is time for him to rise and share his own opinion with us.”

There were numerous sounds of agreement; and Anardil’s heart sank in his chest as he half-saw, half-felt the swift, energetic motion of the Noldo rising behind him.

“I would rather like to voice a few question towards Lord Anardil himself,” he said with unhidden fury, “who told me he was one of King Olwë’s household, yet now he claims himself to be no lord.”

“Well,” said Anardil heartily, “I might have lied.”

_“I might have already noticed that!”_

“You are always so dramatic about everything, my friend,” Anardil sighed theatrically. “You see, I was not the only one who feared for their life that day, the day when you saved me. Of course I told you I was someone important; I wanted to get your attention before the others, to end my misery, to get somewhere safe so I could see my wounds tended and my soul eased a bit after months of cruel torment.”

“And learning Quenya?” Voronwë raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve spent some time in Tirion as a painter’s apprentice. I picked it up on the streets, that is all. Then my master got a small work in the palace; I was always carrying his things, and Prince – I mean, High King _Finde-cáno_ once walked right up to me and said that he liked my hair.” Anardil rested a musing finger upon his chin. “I wonder if he remembers that. Surely, he doesn’t. Yet that was where I picked up ceremonial Quenya from: the King’s Palace.”

 _“And the story about the ships?!”_ Ecthelion and Laurefindil exclaimed in unison with Voronwë.

“That was true. Well, perhaps…with a slight exaggeration. I did have two ships the Feanoreans took, and I mourn them until this day. And my parents truly died; and I journeyed many lands and saw many things. I have never lied about who I was - only about where I come from. Because tell me truly, o fine Lords of Ondolindë: who would care about a painter’s apprentice who lost some sorry ships and loved ones in the raging conflicts of the past? Who would notice that it was all he had? Who would understand his only need, his sole desire, that of safety and home? Who would care to see such a small Elf safe?”

“From this moment on,” said King Turukáno of Ondolindë, “I do.”

“Then, Highness, you could ask yourself another question: are the people of this City by any means better, more important, more valuable than those poor souls you have left behind in Beleriand? Are they your kinsmen or not? For if you consider them as such, ‘tis your duty to aid them.”

Silence stretched in the Great Hall; so long that it made Anardil cringe. Then finally, when he was already utterly convinced that he messed everything up with some grievous insult he barely noticed, the King laughed. The sound of his mirth was soft, yet it rang free and clear between the high walls.

“You have been complaining about your lowly state, my friend,” he said, “yet there is no lord who could remind a king about his duty; only a painter’s apprentice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> *The House of Wing was canonically led by Tuor, and possibly also founded by him. There is no information to be found of it preceding the events in The Fall of Gondolin. But instead of reducing the Houses to eleven, I preferred to give the Eleventh House to Penlod as well – as you've probably noticed, I preferably stick to symbolic numbers, just like the 12 Houses, the 7 marble stairs or the 24-24 great windows. I just can't resist...  
> I gave Galdor, Egalmoth, Duilin, Rog and Laurefindil important positions that are not described in 'The Fall', 'The Silm' or Tolkien's other works. Echtelion's title, however, is full canon, and Lómion is also known to have participated in Turukáno's Council. One thing I believe I haven’t cleared up yet: Laurefindil being Marshal practically means that everyone in the city who belongs to the army in any way responds to him.  
> Each of these made-up titles is a huge responsibility, and has its own privileges and limits, you will see that in time.  
> All descriptions of Gondolin heraldry were written with the aid of Tolkien Gateway, and ‘The Fall of Gondolin’.  
> Anardil’s bad pronunciation is marked by commas, dashes and sometimes Italic.  
> Telerin is canonically similar to Quenya: From the viewpoint of the speakers of Quenya (who considered their language the main direct descendant of Common Eldarin), they considered Telerin (a direct descendant of Common Telerin) a "dialect of Quenya". Telerin was therefore considered a closely related language still largely intelligible. [as in ‘The War of the Jewels’]  
> About Anardil: well… :) what can I say? I hope you’ll continue to like him with his “lowly” birth and insolence. If you’re upset and disturbed now, trying to grasp what on Earth his intentions could be and what the actual heck he’s doing in this story, that only means I did my job well… :D  
> And also… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this chapter did not quite turn out as intended – which makes us tarry yet another instalment in Gondolin.


	12. The King's Doom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here goes the second instalment the Great Council of Gondolin. (That means we’re still stagnating on the third day of April / Víressë, year 467 of the First Age). This chapter is an important setup for later ones. Also, let me seize the occasion and thank you once again for all the praise and critique – basically, any sort of feedback. It means a great deal.  
> And last but not the least: my amazing friend, nosmaeth made a trailer – yes, a trailer -, for ‘The Seven Gates’, which you can watch on YouTube. Here is the link: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kX_rsxwHjsk ).

**“This above all: to thine own self be true,**

**And it must follow, as the night the day,**

**Thou canst not then be false to any man.”**

**― William Shakespeare, Hamlet**

_“When in this lifetime,”_ Ecthelion hissed _, “did that impossible brat learn our tongue?!_ No, wait… this is no more than a dream. The drunken sort. He could not have just said _that.”_

“These days,” Laurefindil answered him softly, “boundaries between visions and reality are not half as prominent as we could expect, my friend. Well - it’s either that, or we’re simply bound to face a set of very unlikely situations.”

Even as he spoke, Laurefindil had to admit himself that _unlikely_ was a very soft word to describe the council’s happenings. At first, he’d heard the lay of Beren and Lúthien: their toils, their suffering, the way they unleashed Sauron’s wrath, topped with an all-too detailed account on Findaráto’s murder that made his blood boil. Then words of Tyelkormo’s treachery had come, accompanied by the low, gut-wrenching sensation of rage and regret in the pit of his stomach. Seeing calm, collected faces all around him, part of him suddenly wished he could smash some of the most toughly impassive heads into a wall of iron. How could they _not care_ was entirely beyond his grasp.

And then, just as he thought he’d already heard everything that could be said, Lord Anardil – or, as his freshly acknowledged lack of titles required, simply _Anardil_ \- stood and spoke; and he voiced the same suppressed, hidden sorrow, anguish and disquiet that was lurking in Laurefindil’s heart.

His hands gripping senselessly the sides of his chair, the Captain’s knuckles turned white as he struggled to fight back the sudden hotness and mist that filled his eyes. Anardil’s grim declarations felt just as dark and ill-boding as his own recurring dreams; and for a second, the two levels of perception mingled in his mind. It happened thus that when Captain Laurefindil shot an alarmed, sidelong look at his closest friend, he could not understand that the sources of their turmoil were not only _different,_ but nearly unalliable.

 _“He speaks and understands Quenya,”_ Ecthelion seethed, _“yet he made me thou and thee like some pompous fool!”_

“I fear he may have done some even more outrageous things, Lord Warden,” Laurefindil murmured empathically. “Just look at our friend, Voronwë!”

Seeing the always stern, always quiet and impeccably courteous mariner practically _shaking_ with rage, Laurefindil felt a pang of doubt. Could it be wrong to feel the same way as Anardil? Could he be misguided, or mistaken to agree with him?

He listened very intently while the Teler unveiled all the lies he had told them, and held his breath with the rest of the Great Hall when King Turukáno of Ondolindë was brusquely and inelegantly reminded of his duty as a ruler – then, as everyone else, he utterly stilled when he heard him laugh. He felt a soft impact pressing his feet as Ecthelion shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he sat; and Laurefindil knew he had to collect himself, lest he spring to his feet and protest.

“You have been complaining about your lowly state, my friend,” King Turukáno said, “yet there is no lord who could remind a king about his duty; only a painter’s apprentice.”

Silence stretched in the hall again; the air went dense with thoughts and suppressed words, and from the many eyes fixed on Anardil, few were friendly. Finally, it was Counsellor Lómion who stood and voiced the general discontentment.

“Highness,” he said, and for once, Laurefindil could _see_ he was struggling to keep a mask of diplomatic quietude on his face. “I have been told that my counsel was worthy of your kingdom, and there was wisdom in it. For that alone I beg you to hear me now: it would be best to spare your good thoughts and attention from this Elf. His behaviour itself is the proof how fell and dangerous he is. You, Highness, have heard yourself, as have you all, my Lords,” here, Lómion raised his head to look around in the vast immensity of the Hall, “how little his own words of honour mean him. He broke all possible laws of our City to get in – he misguided our best informator, Lord Voronwë, and he almost succeeded to gain the trust of our Captain of Guards and the Lord Warden of the Gates by claiming a false identity. Tell me, o King, what fate does one merit who betrays us so? This is a Council of honourable lords, not – well, petty liars.”

_That was an insult, and a grievous one._

Laurefindil drew a sharp breath, his legs getting ready to lift him, but Ecthelion was swifter.

“My King,” he said slowly, gravely, “I have never dreamed that one day, I’ll agree with Counsellor Lómion – and alas, the day has come! Yet everything that happened, happened out of my own folly: I should have never let this Elf enter our Gates and utilize our kindness.”

“Let him enter or have him killed: this was the choice you had to make, Lord Warden,” said Voronwë sternly. “The fault was mine. I should have discovered I was lied to – and for that, I owe my most humble apology for you, Highness, and for the whole Council. Yet what was done is now done, and there is no way to change the past. We need to examine the situation as it is _now;_ and I accept any sort of punishment you seem fit as the laws and customs of our realm require.”

“Do the laws and customs of your realm also require to talk about people as if they were not present?” Anardil found his voice. There was a new, strange edge to his tone; one Laurefindil could not yet grasp. “Also, what on Arda was that about me being killed?!”

“You never told him about the regulations,” Chief Advisor Galdor said, and his unrelenting eyes paused on Voronwë’s face.

“I did not; not precisely,” said he, “and that was another grievous mistake. I told him that our kingdom was sealed; but I did not inform him about the strictest of rules, as I have never dreamed they would apply in his case. Also, I deemed it would give away too much information; ‘tis only now that I see my mistake.”

“Whyever would they not apply?” Counsellor Lómion crossed his arms. “The case of Húrin and Huor was an exception, and it happened against the Council’s wishes, because our King, in his wisdom, deemed otherwise. Keeping secrets is a delicate matter, Lord Voronwë; and I am afraid your friend shall not be as lucky as our mortal guests were.”

“He is no friend of mine,” said Voronwë calmly. “If you want to know, Lord Counsellor, I had planned to ask for the direct judgement of our King: the only one who has the right to decide in such a matter. Huor and Húrin, as you are aware, were flown into our City by the mighty Eagles; and so was now the pair of us. A liar this Elf might be, but he doesn’t know the way in.”

“And he shall never know the way out, if this Council holds any common sense,” Ecthelion suddenly said.

“Why is it that the _one_ time in my life when I decide to be honourable, my attempts are thrown back into my face with the most colourful insults I have ever heard?!” Anardil exclaimed, and Laurefindil shifted in his chair, so surprised he was at the fervour in his voice. “Yes, o mighty Lords of Ondo-lindë, _I have lied:_ pity enough that one has to lie to claim your attention! Yet it is not for myself that I speak –“

 _“And there you just lied again!”_ Hissed Counsellor Lómion. “You, traitor, care for nothing but saving your own skin. You have told us yourself: you wanted to end your misery – to have your saviour’s attention _before the others._ If you cared about the well-being of anyone else, you’d perhaps have let yourself carried away by the Call of Mandos when you noticed a drowning child a few feet away from you! Or an injured soldier, wearied by torture and pain! Yet you only had eyes for yourself! You seized a privilege that was not yours.”

 _“A privilege that should not even exist!”_ Anardil shouted back at him, but Lómion’s eyes were dark, furious and terrible, and they seemed to strip him to the core.

“You have no right to decide what should or should not be,” he said. “You broke our laws and deceived us: for that deed, you are named traitor, and a danger to our kingdom. The Council shall now decide of your fate. Do you have anything else to declare?”

“I have already declared too much,” Anardil said. His features remained stern, but his eyes betrayed confusion and fear. “If you name me traitor and chop my head off, my blood is on your hands – and _then_ I will know that the brave Ñoldor are indeed no more than slayers of kin. Tell me, o wise Counsellor, are these diamond walls made of the wealth of those you have already executed because they told you the truth?”

 _“You are not helping yourself!”_ Voronwë exclaimed.

“Why should I? I have my no-friend-of-mine by my side to help me!” Anardil shot back at him, now openly raging. “You are going to have me _executed_ because I have hurt your pride. Is that not enough for you, you still have to preach your non-existent wisdom?!”

_“ENOUGH!”_

Both Laurefindil and Ecthelion gave a start. Never in their waking lives have they – or anyone else, at that – seen Chief Advisor Galdor raising his voice even the slightest bit; yet now he sprang to his feet, anger sparkling in his grey eyes.

“Your words are poisonous,” he said. “I feel the work of the Enemy here; you have brought back a shard of evil with you from your journey. But that evil is no part of you, children, nor does it come from within. Let it go! You should never allow anger and fear to cloud your eyes, to make you say or swear things you cannot hold onto. Counsellor Lómion, that regards you as well. One thing is caution, and another thing is misgiving.”

More and more cautious glances wandered towards King Turukáno with every passing moment, but the King remained silent, and seemed deep in thought.

“Let the Council decide, then,” Counsellor Lómion said. “The charges are known to all. Are there any witnesses who wish to provide us any further information?”

Ten seconds passed in utter silence and stillness.

“If not…,” Lómion went on, but Voronwë stood.

“I have a right I would like to use,” he said, voice utterly flat and emotionless. “As you are aware, my Lords, I am member of the Small Council and my word, as I am told, matters to you; for these reasons alone I gather now my courage to beg for the mercy of my kinsman, Turukáno Ñolofinwion, King of the City of Ondolindë and Protector of this Realm.”

 _“What?!”_ Ecthelion whispered, a little bit too loudly.

“And now,” said Voronwë Aranwion, “if you may excuse me.”

He shoved an empty chair out of his way, and almost _raced_ across the Hall with his long strides. Even at such speed, it took him half a minute to reach the main entrance which was shut behind him with a loud _bang_.

To his own surprise, Laurefindil could hardly suppress a grin. Sending an unobtrusive look around the Great Hall, he saw a sea of confused faces, of brows clouded by raging thoughts, of mouths trembling, pushed by the weight of unsaid words. As for Anardil, he turned slowly around, his bright green eyes fixed at first on Voronwë’s back, then the gigantesque ebony door, wrought with cunning jewels of every colour.

“One would think the Council is at loss, my friend,” Laurefindil murmured to Ecthelion. “A rare sight.”

“Precisely,” Ecthelion nodded. “I think we might have heard enough for today. ‘Tis really hard to perceive all at once – the bats and the werewolves, the stolen Silmaril, the betrayal of Tyelkormo and Curufinwë and Sauron’s machinations, and now this impossible, dangerous Elf... in all honesty, Fin, I don’t believe _anything_ else could surprise me toda…. _ERESTOR!_ WHAT IN MANWË’S HOLY NAME ARE YOU DOING IN THIS ROOM?!”

Laurefindil’s eyes widened at the exclamation, but Erestor was there indeed, sitting comfortably on a chair, merely a few seats away from the King. On his left, a scribe was making notes, his quill dancing delicately on the parchment; the seat on his right, however, was empty. When Laurefindil looked at the boy, Erestor eyed him back steadily, with a little quirk at the corner of his mouth that could be a shadow of a smile. Though he had the grace to blush at least, his voice was flat and entirely without regret when he said,

“I am executing a royal order, Lord Warden.”

Seeing the look of approval Counsellor Lómion sent the youth at the answer, Laurefindil began to suspect that he was missing something. Curiously, though, Ecthelion seemed just as perplexed at the revelation as he did.

“And since when is my underage nephew qualified to carry out such an important task, if I may inquire?” he raised a thin eyebrow.

Laurefindil could sense mild anger behind the veil of words so soft, so polite. He had to remind himself that his friend’s pride was being hurt the third time that day, lest he say something - rebuking Ecthelion at such a moment might have led to unforeseeable consequences.

“Since never, most likely,” said young Erestor with dignity, “yet one would be insane to deny the King’s request when made, and deprive themselves of the honour to witness a Great Council.”

“Any fault young Erestor might have committed today is mine, not his: he is indeed here at my request.”

When King Turukáno finally spoke, all other sound died out immediately in the Great Hall. Laurefindil could feel attention and apprehension vibrating in the very air they breathed. Lord Anardil was the only one who did not look at the King; his eyes were fixed on either his own boots or the curious shapes on the marble floor, one could not be sure.

Laurefindil was waiting for orders to carry out, explanations to come, new questions to be raised, yet all the King said was,

“Upon the request of Voronwë Aranwion, and upon my own will, I shall personally judge the case of our guest, Anardil; therefore, our Council is now dismissed. I thank you for coming here today and sharing your insight. The tale of Beren and Lúthien, as we have heard it, is to be known by every single soul within this realm, and praised freely by those who find joy in them, for they were remarkable. On the contrary, any action or plan of action that might take place as an answer to recent happenings, and which has been discussed here, should be kept in secret until the Council deems otherwise. Our next meeting shall take place after the celebrations of Tarnin Austa, on the first day of the new month. I expect the members of the Small Council in my study tomorrow morning, at first light; for now, all of you are dismissed save for our guest, Anardil. I have spoken.”

And Captain Laurefindil of the Golden Flower stood, following the flood of council members, undisturbed by all waves of wary looks and confused whispering. At the doorstep, he glanced back behind his shoulders, and saw the King stepping near the dazed, lonely figure of Anardil, still encircled by empty chairs, and placing a steady hand on his shoulder. The Teler gave a start, rays of light dancing around in his luxurious silver hair as he raised his chin to face King Turukáno.

Laurefindil shook his head, and forced himself to turn back and walk away.

 _Councils are supposed to clear things up,_ he thought, _not to complicate them._

~ § ~

**_The Tower of the Fountain, Dining Hall_ **

“This is _insane,”_ Ecthelion slammed his fist on the table, so that the bits of salad gave a small jump in the plate before him. “Honestly, Fin, I just can’t believe what I saw and heard. It seems that evil has found its way to our City at last; this was the very thing that we have always feared, and now that it’s happening, we are sitting idly, hoping that the storm shall pass us by. Moreover, I am _convinced_ that the King knows something we do not. I sense it. He dismissed us so abruptly and quickly, as if he just got the confirmation of something, an answer to a secret question he’d been waiting for. And then there is Anardil – he is the most dangerous fellow we have ever seen, and King Turukáno does… _what exactly?_ He laughs at his offensive jokes…? We have never seen him treating a criminal in such a way before. Like an honoured guest! And…”

“Let us leave it at that,” Laurefindil placed a knife across his empty plate, and looked at his friend with interest. “A _criminal…?_ Tell me truly, and without any shame: why exactly do you think Anardil is _that_ dangerous? Because he lied? Because he has hurt your pride? Because he’s been speaking his mind in a way we have never experienced before in this kingdom?”

“Mock my pride all the way you like,” Ecthelion said icily, “but that Elf is not an honest soul.”

“Not entirely, or perhaps not _yet,_ that is for sure,” Laurefindil said. “But I sense something strange… or rather, thrilling about him. His tale still seems false, or at least not entirely true. Do you not remember the day we greeted him – when he spoke of Beleriand, and of how fell and dangerous Orcs have become in the wilderness? He _cared_ about all those villages burned, all those women and children killed, all those lands laid waste… they have touched his soul. He would have perhaps cried for them if we were not there, but he pulled on the mask of the wearied traveller who is no longer touched by the cruelty of this world. And now, in the Council, he proved – or pretended – to be loud and selfish, a pure opportunist. I think that was a mask as well. You think he spoke the truth at last? If you ask me, he merely weaved the web of his lies even further. If I could only know why he is truly here…!”

“The truth, usually, is less complicated than this,” Ecthelion objected.

“Usually, yes. Yet I trust your good judgement, my friend. You would have never let an impure soul pass your beloved Gates.”

“You should not trust me this much, Fin.”

“Even if I would choose not to trust you, which I cannot, there is still Voronwë, and the way he treated this Elf. He is warier and more seasoned than the pair of us combined, and even _he_ tended to genuinely trust Anardil! When the pair of them arrived at the Gates, they seemed almost friends.”

“Curiously enough,” Ecthelion sighed. “Everyone can make mistakes, Fin; and I admit that there is something exceptionally… _disarming_ in this Elf. He seems perfectly direct and natural, yet you can never see his true colours. I wonder what King Turukáno shall do to him.”

“So do I, my friend,” Laurefindil mused, “so do I. It seems an even greater mystery than the case of young Erestor.”

“I find that I am somewhat proud of him, you know,” Ecthelion gave a small smile at the change of subject, “yet the two of us need to talk. It seems that he wishes to become a scholar.”

“Well, that is a good thing, is it not?”

“I am not so sure,” Ecthelion shifted in his seat. “I want this child to learn how to take care of himself. How to _defend_ himself.”

“In some wars, one may find that a quill is sharper than any blade.”

“True enough; but first and foremost, I want to protect Erestor from Counsellor Lómion and his likes, and becoming a scholar will not help him with that.”

Laurefindil drew a sharp breath, but hesitated a few heartbeats before speaking.

“Valar, I know I swore to evade this terrain,” he said warily, “but are you aware of the extent of your hostility towards Lómion? It is becoming palpable, and I am sure he’s starting to sense it as well. You have no… no _public_ reason to treat him this way, Ecthelion. Be careful, if you do not want him to guess the reasons behind your grave looks.”

“There is nothing to guess,” Ecthelion said, articulating every word with accurate precision.

“I know what Itarillë meant to you, and…”

“You _don’t,”_ his friend barked, “and I suggest we try and discuss this whole matter another time.”

Laurefindil looked up to meet Ecthelion’s eyes – they seemed somewhat tired and empty, only embers remaining of their bright silvery gleam –, then slowly, he nodded.

“Perhaps that would be best,” he said. “I should be on duty in any case. Thank you and your household for the lunch – it was excellent, as ever.”

He stood and shook out his cloak with an elegant flourish, then made his way to the door. Ecthelion grabbed the handle, though, before he could have reached it.

“There is no need to see me out,” stated Laurefindil calmly. “I know my way around your halls.”

“I would be surprised if you did not,” Ecthelion said, “yet… I am surprised that you would leave this abruptly. Was I crude to you?”

“Not particularly,” Laurefindil grinned. “And I am aware of all the rhetorics behind your soft rebukes… yet you were right. This is definitely not the best moment to dwell on such matters. I should not have brought it all up…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ecthelion squeezed his shoulder, somewhat more strongly than was his custom. “You cannot leave this quickly, I wanted to talk to you. About your dreams.”

“Yes, Thel, and since you know me as well as you know yourself, you might have already guessed that this is the very thing I am now trying to avoid.”

Though a grave warning lingered behind it, Laurefindil’s voice was casual, even playful; and his friend clearly pretended he did not even notice it.

“Come on, Fin, you _will not_ escape without any explanation! I don’t remember the last time you have overslept even a few minutes. You would have missed the whole Council if I had not knocked on your door!”

“Thankfully enough, you did,” Laurefindil said, as if that could settle the whole matter.

“Aye. But… you should tell me more about these dreams, Fin. They are starting to unsettle me. You are not yourself since you began seeing them. Sometimes you appear far more… _distant_ … than you used to be. Your eyes wander beyond the world one can see. You’re thinking about your dreams too much, my friend… I think that they’re starting to rule your whole life.”

“No; not really,” Laurefindil sighed. “In truth, I have – well, I have helped myself a bit to sleep last eve, and I have never thought that the method would prove this effective. As for the dreams, I only want them to go away. They’re an unsolvable puzzle. They are nothing more than parts of a great whole I shall never fully see or comprehend. My dreams are unintelligible, and they are driving out the worst of me. But I hope they shall soon pass.”

“Parts of a great whole…,” Ecthelion muttered. “That is interesting.”

“Why so?”

“Because admitting that your dreams are not forming a whole entity means that you think there are several parts missing from them. And if you assume that there _are_ missing parts, that raises the question _where_ said parts of your visions are. Perhaps they linger still in the back of your head, waiting to break out and overwhelm you… or perhaps _others_ are seeing them, witnessing the same feeling of incompleteness as now you do. Both these options are equally interesting – and worrisome.”

“You suddenly seem to care much more about my dreams than I do,” Laurefindil forced a smile on his face. “I say, Thel, that I am merely too worried, and my imagination is running wild. Now, though, I need to go, for duty awaits. We shall meet again at the small council – and I would dearly like to spar with you afterwards if you’d agree.”

“It would both please and honour me,” said Ecthelion, and Laurefindil felt the warmth of fondness spreading in his chest at his friend’s lofty speech.

When they clasped their arms in a warriors’ greeting, though, their words of farewell were collected and formal.

 _Far more formal than a good-bye of two lifelong friends should be,_ Laurefindil thought.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

**_King Turukáno’s study_ **

The first things Anardil could discern were the colours: a rich palette of blue, white, and golden, from the cleanest, most pale tinges to the deepest shades. The King’s hand was still resting on his left shoulder, its touch no longer a grip but mere guidance through stairs and doorsteps still unknown to him. Anardil let himself being led, tearing the shreds of his own conscience apart, refusing to imagine what was about to happen; but more and more dreadful theories came to his mind with every step and every heartbeat.

The study of the King was bright and spacious, with a large ebony desk in the middle, several enormous windows of painted glass around the walls and a slender balcony door in the far end of the room. By the time they reached the desk, Anardil felt ready for almost anything to come; numb, senseless acceptance filled his entire being.

 _I am no coward,_ some proud, dignified (and previously unknown) dimension of his conscience insisted. _I can accept my fate, whatever it is_.

The first momentum of Anardil’s curious fate consisted of King Turukáno letting his shoulder go, gesturing towards the luxurious armchair that faced his desk, and asking,

“Red or white wine?”

“I… _what?”_ Anardil blurted out most ungracefully. “I mean… excuse me, your Majesty?”

In Quenya, the title had a strange, alien ring to it; and the stern lines of the King’s face softened a little as Anardil uttered it.

“I took the courage to inquire,” he said slowly, calmly, uttering every word with merciless, accurate precision, “about your preference in wine. Is it red or white, then?”

“Well… er… white,” Anardil stuttered, allowing himself a careful glance at the King. For the present, he did not look like a tryant who wanted to execute him. Truth be told, he did not look like a tryant at all, and a murderer even less.

_Yet neither had Fëanáro._

By the time Anardil settled in the armchair and collected himself a little, King Turukáno slid over to some far corner of the room, came back with a bottle of wine and two goblets wrought with diamonds - Anardil roughly estimated their valour to be worth twice the wealth he’d earned in the past four centuries -, then sat down at the other side of the desk, filled the two goblets himself, and leaned back with ease, long, slim fingers curling around his own cup.

“Be most welcome in my halls, Anardil of the Falmari,” he said with a quizzical smile, and raised the glittering chalice. “May your stay, long or short, be pleasant here.”

 _He is trying to unsettle me,_ Anardil decided, refusing to acknowledge that he was already far too unsettled. _Very well, then let us play on. If this is the very last day of my life, at least let it prove amusing!_

“I thank you for your hospitality, Highness,” he said aloud, and raised his cup likewise, “for it is most remarkable.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

King Turukáno took a generous sip of wine, then placed his chalice on the table, and looked him straight in the eye. Anardil steeled every bit of his consciousness against the flood of questions long awaited – and doubtlessly rightful -, but they did not come.

“Do you know why you are here, Anardil of the Falmari?” the King asked instead.

“You are to judge me.”

“The Council was to judge you, mere minutes ago, and they seemed not very willing to vote in your favour. You angered them beyond measure… you’d better be more careful with that in the future. I believe Voronwë did not tell you much about the ways of law and decision-making in my kingdom.”

“He refused to speak about the place he was taking me at,” Anardil shrugged. “And I did not insist. It made lying easier, for if I ever asked anything, he asked me back. That was how it went between us: a question for a question, an answer for an answer. Few questions and half-answers, therefore.”

“I see,” said the King. “Let us play the same game of questions and answers, then! The only hardship I shall weigh on your shoulders is that if I catch you lying, I will kill you.”

Anardil, who had never heard a death threat voiced with such flawless elegance, such exuberant courtesy before, could not help but blurt out, his eyes wide and surprised,

“And what if _I_ catch _you_ lying?”

 “I shall give you my crown and kneel before you, then; and the Seas will rise, the world will change, and the Valar shall come and chase Moringotto out to the blackest Void; and we shall all greet the new dawn with thunderous applause.”

At Anardil’s bewildered gaze, a soft, elegant laugh escaped King Turukáno’s lips, much like the one he’d uttered in the council room, less than an hour before. His hand then wandered down, under the edges of the table. Anardil gave a start when he heard a pang of sharpened steel, and watched in awe as King Turukáno placed a pale, softly gleaming longsword on the table.

“This is Nambegotto,” he said, almost gently. “May he stay between us while we play our game.”

“May it be so,” said Anardil, letting a long-caught breath escape his lungs. “Forgive my insolence, Highness, for being the one to ask the first question, but… why did you suddenly dismiss the Council? And why did Voronwë ask you to judge me personally…? Do I have more chance for your mercy this way?”

_Or perhaps less?_

“You asked me three questions at once,” said King Turukáno, “yet for the first and last time, I shall answer all of them. Hear, I dismissed the Council because tempers were rising; and anger kills real discussion, which is most undesirable. Voronwë asking for my personal consideration – and mercy – in your case means that you shall be judged outside the frames of public discussion. Whether that leaves you more or even less chance to rest unharmed, I cannot yet tell.”

“Very reassuring,” Anardil sighed. “And tell me, Highness, what did…,” he sighed, shook his head, swallowed the rest of the question. “No, wait. Your turn.”

 _“He has buried his manners deep inside his heart; mayhaps deeper than the roots of our mountains, mayhaps deeper than the very heart of the world, yet they are there:_ so I have told to good Master Rog,” said the King, “and lo! I was not mistaken. Tell me truly, Master Anardil, do you think that the charges thrown at you in the Council were unjust?”

“Yes and no,” said Anardil carefully. “Part of them was just, since I _did_ lie about my identity in order to reach a safe and secure place, and to gain attention. Sometimes, I feel ashamed of what I have done, even if from my own point of view, it seemed necessary. But then… then there is the other side. Counsellor Lómion has deeply insulted me when he called me a traitor and a danger to this city. How could I endanger any of you? I could not even hurt a fly!”

“You might forgive me if I refuse to believe that,” said King Turukáno.

“That is either most flattering or terribly offensive to hear, Highness,” Anardil allowed himself a smile. “I cannot yet decide. Now tell me, o King, about the rules and regulations of entering your city.”

“Ondolindë has six gates, and neither of them is easy to enter,” came the calm, collected answer. “They are well hidden, and heavily guarded. The easiest way inside is to fly, as you have done, until you reached the Gate of Silver; in such a case, guests are handled personally by first Lord Ecthelion, the Warden, then myself. You were not told the rules since you came here on the wings of the Eagles; and never in your waking life shall you pass my Gates again.”

Anardil felt a very uncomfortable pang in the back of his head.

“Is that not too quick a judgement, Highness?” he objected, far less elegantly than he’d meant to.

“No judgement was spoken yet,” came the answer, “only the laws of my kingdom.”

“But you are King, so you can overwrite your own rules,” Anardil offered gleefully.

 _“That_ would be too quick a judgement indeed,” said King Turukáno smoothly, and took a sip of wine. “My kingdom is sealed, Anardil of the Falmari. Once you come in, there is no way back. But I assume your friend Voronwë told you that as well.”

“He did,” said Anardil, only partially aware of giving away information while, in truth, no questions have been asked, “yet he also spoke of a case of exception; and that was while I went along with my lie, and continued to pretend being a lord. Voronwë did not tell me why the exception in question did occur, so I was left to wonder. I did not want to miss my chance.”

“Tell me everything about your last days in custody, and your escape,” said King Turukáno.

 _That is a story not worth telling,_ Anardil wanted to say, but the gleam of Nambegotto, lying so peacefully and harmlessly across the table, was cold and sharp, and he could almost feel the bite of steel on his skin.

“I was certain that I would die,” he swallowed. “The King… King Findaráto… he was there. And Beren, that mortal was there, too. And their companions. I saw them between the bars of my cell sometimes, and heard them a lot more. The walls were very thin, for a prison. Every day a werewolf came and ate one of them. Finally, only Beren and the king remained. That was a bad day; the lash split across my back when the Orcs came to deliver my daily dose of curses and beatings. They blamed me for the loss of their favourite toy, of course, so they… well, that angered them. They stripped me. Not that I was well dressed before, but they stripped me completely… then they dragged me and another poor Elf along to that cell, bound me, and… they made me watch as the wolf – well, the wolf did what a wolf was supposed to do. I think they even starved that beast so it would attack King Findaráto more furiously. It was… it was horrible, I still retch when I think of it sometimes. They kept me close enough to get dripped in blood and flesh and… well, everything. Back in that cell, I was certain that I was about to die, but then… then _she_ came, and freed us, and the walls crumbled… or perhaps I only dreamed that, and someone cut the ropes and dragged me on my feet.”

“The next thing I remember is running downhill, out of that accursed fortress, leading everyone and anyone who could walk, and who agreed to escape with me. We knew Sauron was going to hunt for us, and all we wished for was a square meal and safety. My companions fell around me… so many have died on that day… and then we reached the river, and I do not know what happened but I fell; I tried to swim but my strength failed me. I grabbed hold of a swimming loggat, and I must have fainted… Then the next thing I remember is a ship, and Voronwë on the decks. He seemed someone stern, someone of authority. So I cried for help. I knew there were people around me, perhaps others who begged for help. Orcs ambushed us, arrows were flying everywhere. I was afraid, I was terribly afraid… I did not want to lose my life just then and there! Then something possessed me, and I yelled that I was one of King Olwë’s household, one of wealth, one of importance; and strong arms grabbed me to pull me out of the water, and my eyes saw no more. When I woke, Voronwë was by my side, and he was tending to my wounds.” Anardil sighed. “Tell me, Highness, are you going to punish him for bringing me here?”

“I may not,” said King Turukáno. “Now tell me in return, for I am most curious: why did you reveal your lie in front of the whole Council?”

 _Now that I look back at it, that is a very good question,_ Anardil thought.

“It was starting to weigh hard on me,” he chose to say, “and most of you could guess from my manners that something was off… I mean, not entirely all right with me. Otherwise, my King, I really do not know – it merely felt the right thing to do. I clearly could not live with such a lie any further, and I was hoping to get your attention by such a revelation… which I did, at the end, but perhaps not in the way I had intended to. I am not a chivalrous, nor a very respectable person, but I never wanted to do you harm. I am an enemy of the Dark Lord, much like you. I hate him and his creations, much like all other Elves do. I would be happy to see his downfall… much like whole Beleriand would.”

Their game of questions and answers was entirely forgotten as King Turukáno leaned over the table, the gleaming blade of his longsword painting curious reflections on his skin.

“Your lie still seems entirely unnecessary to me,” he said. “You would have been saved and treated with respect in any case. What happened in those prison cells that made you feel so unworthy of care and attention?”

“A… a great many things, Highness,” said Anardil, trying in vain to swallow the lump in his throat. Suddenly, his mouth went dry and he had to fight back a wave of unwanted, rather graphical memories. “I can’t… I can’t tell you right now, not yet, it’s just entirely too close. Yet this is the very essence of Sauron’s means of torture: he strips you of everything you ever were. He… he makes you feel like he’s doing you a favour even while torturing you, because you’re not even worthy of _that_ kind of attention. He sees under your skin, through your flesh, he sees _inside_ you… sees that you are nothing. And once he strips you of all protest and dignity, you become his puppet. I have seen that happening before. People start to do unnecessary things, like… like lying.”

Cold dread ran through Anardil’s veins as he uttered that, his eyes wide with confusion and shock.

“I did not mean to…,” he whispered. “I’ve never wanted… it’s just so hard… so hard to be normal again…”

“Being normal is entirely too hard,” said King Turukáno. “Sometimes bordering impossible.”

“I did not want to cause so much trouble,” Anardil whispered miserably. “I was just afraid, terribly afraid, more afraid than you could ever understand. While I was tormented there, I could bear it, I braced myself every day and went on, but now that it’s over, the sheer reality of it, the smallest possibility of it ever happening again… it unsettles me, it puts me out of my mind. I could not bear it, Highness, I could not live through it again. And the shadows of pain past shall never let me be! I’ve been having nightmares for years, and they only worsened in the prison, but I will never be free of them again.”

“Then, if I understand correctly, you had hoped you would finally get to a place where you can live peacefully, untouched by the perils of the world. Yet also freely, for you are a traveller, and the challenges of the unknown call you, speak to you from time to time. You’d hoped to get away, and start a new life, far from war and suffering, and you’d hoped as well to deliver a message of warning to those who live in safety still. Yet, in order to chase your dreams, you were obliged to lie; and that lie gnawed at you from the inside, until today, when you revealed it, still not quite ready to face the consequences. The memory of your capture and torture veils your eyes still, and you crawl in the darkness, chasing the smallest flicker of light.”

“As you say, Highness,” said Anardil, suddenly becoming aware that he was trembling. “Peace and safety was everything I wanted – _is_ everything I want -, and I was ready to do anything for it. I will not deny it. I accept any sort of punishment you deem fit, only… please, have mercy on me, and do not put me into prison. Never to prison. I’d rather have my head chopped off for the whole city to see!”

King Turukáno remained silent for a time that seemed a whole Age to Anardil, and he was watching him intently, his razor-sharp gaze shining right through his bare bones. Later, the King’s eyes wandered off towards the walls, the windows, the gemstones on his chalice.

Then suddenly, he leaned back in his chair again.

“My judgement is made,” said he, “and soon it shall be heard throughout the City. Hear me thee, Anardil of the Falmari! Thou hast come to my kingdom, unwanted and unlooked-for, and deceived my people, even though thou meanest them no harm. Thou hast revealed thine lies in front of my Council, yet in honour of my kinsman, Voronwë I alone shall decide of thy fate.”

“It is written in the Laws of Ondolindë that no living soul who passes the Oroquilta and sees my Gates may ever leave again while this Kingdom stands, or until Moringotto is defeated. Therefore, freed thou shalt not be, and pass the Gates thou shalt not. Thy life I spare, thy freedom I give back, with the sole exception that thou must remain in this city. A home I give to thee, to dwell there freely as require the customs of thine people. Clothes I give to thee, to dress as befits a lord. Wealth for a year I give to thee to start thy new life and get accustomed to the ways of my people, and earn thy living as seems best to thee. May thou find the peace and safety that thou so desire, in the fair valley of Tumladen. May no dread or shadow haunt ye! May no enemy find ye! I, Turukáno Ñolofinwion, King of Ondolindë and Protector of the Hidden Realm have spoken, and thus my judgement is made.”

Silence fell on the room; Anardil could hear a bird singing faintly in the distance. Bright sunlight was filtering through the windows, painting tiny rainbows upon the desk between them.

“This…,” when Anardil finally found his voice, it was crooked, and tears were falling from his eyes. “There is punishment in this, and you know it.”

“Indeed.”

“How could I be ever worthy of your mercy, o King?” Anardil cried out desperate, shaken. “Me, a liar, a thrall – and a painter’s apprentice!”

“If there is any hardship in my doom, it lies within your own self,” said the King. _His king._ “I would not have granted you a remuneration for your future deeds if I would not see them coming, Anardil of Ondolindë. As an inhabitant of my city and my subject, you’d better at least _respect_ my insight and consideration until you learn to trust it.”

“Yes, Highness,” said Anardil with such peace and acceptance he did not know he had in his heart.

“See,” King Turukáno stood, and gestured for him to follow, “you are learning.”

And Anardil complied. They stepped out together to a balcony around the lithe Tower of the King; looking down, Anardil could see the green valley of Tumladen opening up before him in the icy embrace of the Encircling Mountains, and the white-silvery gleam of the seven-storied City, buzzing with life.

“What a wondrous place,” he murmured. “Untouched by death and peril. My heart feels lighter since I am here, Highness. This City is like a beautiful flower – so vivid and vibrant. So unlike everything I’ve seen in the past perilous months.”

“Beautiful it is,” murmured King Turukáno, “yet against all odds, I fear for it. The mountains are high, and the peaks icy cold… yet all flowers shall wither.”

Anardil drew a sharp breath. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his eyes to meet Turukáno’s.

He had heard those words before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very closely connected to the previous one (‘Bats and Werewolves’), being a direct continuation. I am truly sorry that you had to wait two months to read a direct continuation.
> 
> Shoutout to those who are interested in the nightmare-mystery: if I were you, I’d reread Tyelcano’s monologue about his dreams in ‘A Day in the March’, then I’d take a closer look at Ecthelion’s and Laurefindil’s conversation, then the very last passage of this chapter. (And the only reason I’m giving this clue away is this shameful two months’ wait. Good luck!).
> 
> Your Daily Dose of Quenya:
> 
> ‘Oroquilta’ is Quenya for Encircling Mountains [my own creation]  
> ‘Nambegotto’ is Quenya for ‘Glamdring’ [m. ‘foe-hammer’]. This version is suppressed to a name; the literal version should be something like “Namba ñgothova”. ‘Nambegotto’ is my own creation as well, roughly following the same rules as the name ‘Moringotto’.


	13. The Crows Are Screaming

**_“Potius morti quam foedari”_ **

 

**XIII.** **The Crows Are Screaming**

 

**_Reading Room in the Fortress of Himring, FA 467, first hours on the ninth day of Víressë_ **

~ § ~

_ Dream 2/467/82 _

_I am wearing my formal robes, and am wounded. Three holes on hauberk: two on the right, one on the left, dangerously close to my heart. Looks like I’ve been shot, then pulled over a heavy inanimate object. It feels like hell. One boot is missing from my feet, and blood is dripping down my chin. ‘Tis probably coming from my nose, but that particular pain eludes me: all I feel is numbness. My head is pounding, I’m losing too much blood._

_I call for a fellow soldier, several times. I don’t remember his name, but what I do recall is that my voice is raspy, my throat burns. I reach for my sword, but it is not there. I grab a knife in its stead, the length of which is unfamiliar. I do not remember owning a knife like that._

_Crows fly around me, watching me with hungry eyes. I know they are waiting for me to die so they could have their feast. Their screams are maddening._

_I hear steps coming, closing in. I am being tracked down, and followed. The enemy, whoever it is, wants me alive – elsewise, I would be dead already. I am swiftly losing blood, and panic stirs in me. I feel like a green boy on his first scouting mission._

_My mind is in a blur, I see strange colours and things that could not possibly be there - such as a group of archers. Strange emblems are flowing through my vision: there is perhaps a tree among them, if Dream 2/476/46 can be trusted – yet it could just as well be a ladder, or a barred gate, or anything else._

_Something gleaming is coming right at me. I can’t remember what it is. Could be a helmet just as much as the point of a lance, or a longsword ready to impale me from guts to skull. I cannot see anything anymore. I fall on the ground, and darkness swallows me._

_ Dream 2/476/83 _

_I crawl on blood-steeped soil. Mist is all around me, and I see the shadows of great mountains in the distance. And I hear the Voice._

_I am wounded. Three holes on hauberk: two on the right, one on the left. Very close to my heart. My head is pounding._

_I am being followed, and all I can do is crawl._

_(Crows)._

_“Why do I crawl,” I ask myself. “Why can’t I just die in peace? Why is it so important to go on?”_

_“All flowers shall wither.”_

_ Dream 2/467/84 _

_My hands are bound, and I am being carried through a narrow passageway. Blood is dripping from all possible places on my body. People are talking above me, but I can’t understand them, I cannot even discern the language. Its sonants and rhythm, though, are highly familiar._

_And the Voice speaks._

_“Hideous creatures lurk in the walls,”_ _it says, “and he flees from them, draping himself into the canvas that is the night. But he who walks in starlight does not flinch; he hides in caves and near breaches and behind rocks, and on he wanders, and on he wanders, but a dead end awaits.”_

_“The gates are closed; and all flowers shall wither.”_

_NOTE: It doesn’t make sense. There is no passageway without a gate at its end. If I am carried through, that means I have already passed the gates. Given, of course, that we are talking about physical gates and not missed opportunities._

_And since Dream 2/467/72, the Light is entirely missing from my dreams._

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Counsellor Tyelcano picked up his quill and dripped it into red ink for once, instead of hollow black. For a few moments, only the turning of pages could be heard around him, sometimes interrupted by the soft scratch of feather over parchment. Countless words became bracketed, and countless others were underlined with neat, red lines. Later, several brackets duplicated and many lines were highlighted; and new pages were filled right afterwards.

Outside, the moon disappeared from the deep black skies by the time the Counsellor placed his quill on the table and leaned back in his armchair, contemplating his work. Of the thick, leather-bound book he used to keep record on his wandering dreams, only a handful of sheets were now empty; his most recent piece of work alone filled a dozen pages. The last time he’d given up such an amount of place in his precious book was when he had poured out all his nightmares, during the siege of Himring in the Dagor Bragollach. This particular writing, though, was not a dream’s description, rather an extensive analysis.

On the first eight pages, Tyelcano had described several scenarios of his recurring nightmare, all of which have been sewed together from previous shards of his dreams. Whenever he found that two parts came together as a whole, he wrote them down continuously. The three following pages were filled with two major scenarios in accordance with whom the dreams have evolved. Tyelcano named these _‘I. Light Comes’_ and _‘II. Darkness Falls’_.

The next pages were thickly filled with a list of variously combined examples and the rate of their appearance. At the beginning these were single elements, then they were extended to two linked words; by the end, however, they became whole sentences. The most frequent words were ‘ _enemy’ [84], ‘darkness’ [82], ‘fog’ [79], ‘Voice’ [77]_ and ‘ _wounded’ [72]._ The combination of _‘fog’, ‘enemy’_ and _‘wounded’_ appeared almost everywhere, and wherever _‘Light’_ was featured, one could also find _‘Voice’, ‘enemy’_ and _‘darkness’_.

As time went by and pages were filled, Tyelcano saw – or thought he saw – more and more connections, more and more intertwined, mutually dependant items. His writing became more rapid and ardent and his keen eyes danced over the pages with unmatched speed. This, at last, was his own terrain: one complex chart of standalone, logic and easily sortable elements. For a few undisturbed minutes, the entire mystery of his visions seemed no more than a mathematical equation, one that could be solved.

Yet no matter how many complicated formulas he scribed on top of the pages, no matter how many times he calculated the probability of this or that element appearing in predictable sequences, no matter how many methods of scatter he used to approach any possible solution, the fortress of his dreams still stood impenetrable, proud and darkly mysterious against his rebelling consciousness.

After more than two hours of fruitless work, the Counsellor let go of his quill once more. Not even a trembling finger betrayed the irritated frustration beneath his mask of tranquillity when he stood. He remained motionless for a minute or two, unwilling to reach for the last existing tool that could help him.

 _This room is spacious,_ he thought. _I would probably not even find that book. I’d need to ask Lord Nelyo if we still have it, and that is a shame I cannot allow to bring on my head._

“If you leave now,” he whispered softly, as if to convince himself, “you will never ask for it. And then you will never know. ‘Tis the fourth hour of the day, and no one is around. No one will ever find out what you were reading.”

 _I am an old Elf_. _A renowned counsellor and a lore-master. How could I rely on nursery tales and superstition?_

At this thought, Tyelcano steeled himself and left the table, holding the thick dream diary tight against his chest. He was a lore-master indeed; and even more. He was the most trusted advisor, the most faithful servant of Nelyafinwë Fëanorion. The word _pride_ did not, _could_ not have any meaning to him.

_My Lord needs me, sane and whole as I am. He needs my capacities to the fullest; I cannot allow myself any failure or distraction. These dreams occupy my thoughts and I dwell on them, wasting precious time I could spend on the matters of Himlad and our household. These dreams are inextricable; I must seize every opportunity to end this nonsense and focus on things of importance. And I cannot do that without obtaining this final confirmation for the hopelessness of my case._

Thus having steeled himself, Tyelcano disappeared in the far end of the library. With stern and unrelenting steps he walked, his notebook in one hand, his beloved lantern in the other. It was a perfect copy of the one he had kept on his desk while he’d dwelt in Formenos; a courtesy of Fëanáro for the occasion of his begetting day – either the three-hundred-and-ninetieth or the three-thousand-eight-hundred-and-third one, depending on how one chose to count.

Tyelcano preferred not to dwell on that; begetting days have long lost their meaning to him… and yet once again, after all these years, his eyes were lost in the mysterious gleam of his lamp. To the lay mind, it was no more than a fine blue crystal hanging in a delicate chain net; yet by either the remarkable skills of Curufinwë Fëanorion or by some sort of magic, the blue hue of the large gemstone shone from within its very centre, where a small flame was captured. Its light was clear and radiant, cutting into the deepest pits of night like fine steel. That bright shade of blue enticed, beguiled Tyelcano’s eyes; and at once, the dancing shadows on the walls seemed to spring to living.

The Counsellor _saw_ the gleam of Fëanáro’s eyes and a cup of wine they raised in the silent depths of a smithy; then the long and ceremonious feast Aran Finwë had insisted to host on his who-knows-which begetting day; endless music and laughter and more cups of wine; Fëanáro standing with his arms crossed, terribly amused as his beloved tutor was made to drink, drink and drink to his own health; the unearthly gleam of Tirion’s towers, the sound of trumpets greeting both a new dawn and a new year in the life of the King’s most trusted advisor; endless council sessions; the fresh scent of parchment as he worded the Laws of the Ñoldor; Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë then all the others being born; little Carnistir leaving fingerprints on a pile of freshly sealed reports and equally little Findekáno trying to cover them with white paint; tears, laughter and strife; Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë facing each other from the two separate ends of a sword; Nelyafinwë admitting in a hollow voice that he had not spoken to Findekáno since their House had departed from Tirion…

_Telperion and Laurelin dying, pitch-black shadows descending on the Blessed Realm…_

_The ghastly pale face of Aran Finwë, blood dripping from his nose, eyes hollow and glassy, gazing to nothingness…_

_Fire rising from white, majestic swan-ships, the song of the flames singing in horrid harmony with the wails of the dying and wounded…_

_Fëanáro dissolving into a pile of ash…_

_Beaten, humiliated, tormented, mutilated Nelyafinwë lying on what could have been his deathbed, ribs poking out from beneath bruised, paper-thin skin; his breath coming in raspy, shallow sighs, never watching, never listening, never waking up, trapped in the agony of living death because he, Tyelcano, Counsellor of the King had abandoned him, he discarded him, he gave everything up, he washed his hands, he let it all happen…_

Tyelcano stopped abruptly in front of the last shelf, grabbing the cold, merciless wood as if he was fearing that he would fall to pieces; then he took a deep, ragged breath and steeled his willpower.

 _Never dwell on the past._   _Your memory reaches too far_.

With an effort, he turned his focus on the book-case before him. He reached for the rickety frame and clicked its door open, the blue hue of his lantern dancing around a good number of threadbare, sour-smelling volumes. Old as these books were, their value was nothing if not questionable; no one in the Himring read them, and the only reason Tyelcano had not already used them as kindling in his hearth was that he instinctively warranted books a certain amount of respect. Most of them were copies of already existing annals, outdated maps and inaccurate reports; yet there were also a few chunks of bawdy poetry hidden behind them, as well as several collections of sickeningly sweet love stories and other questionable volumes – like the one he now sought.

The book was lying precisely where it had been left the last time Tyelcano came across its pages. It was no more than a storm-beaten, smelly pile of parchment by now, held within its leather-bound covers by no more than the will of the Valar; or so it seemed. Now that he came so far, Tyelcano had no choice but to suppress his elemental mistrust and take it, heading back to the inviting pair of his desk and armchair. Once behind the desk, he placed the remains of the book gently on the table, next to his own diary; then folded back the cover and sent a challenging glance towards the front page.

 _The Nature o’ Visions,_ it read in the most archaic Sindarin he had ever seen, _and How to Unriddle Them. Penned by Teithion, son of Gwaenor in the Seventy-fifth Year of the Great Shadow._

Tyelcano did not even have the slightest idea what could the Moriquendi call the Years of the Great Shadow, but he _did_ know that the book was older than most of the scouts in his lord’s army. If he were to guess, though, he would have said that the book had been brought as a gift to the Feast of Reuniting, and everyone forgot about it. There wasn’t any wonder why: the Ñoldor were lords of renown, lore-masters, craftsmen and seekers of the truth - and by no means did they believe that the haze of nightmares held any special meaning that could be identified, other than a demonstration of the underlying sorrows that plagued the dreamer. The only such mysterious power Tyelcano knew of was foresight; and while he, personally, was not gifted with it, he knew well enough how the ability worked, and that it had little to do with actual _dreams._

Yet there he was, at the mercy of Woodelven lore, running through pages and pages and pages of hazy dream-meanings. Apparently, picking flowers meant that the dreamer was about to wed a fair maiden very soon; and looking at growing moss meant slow progress on an important matter. Tyelcano shook his head and sighed amusedly. Was he truly fool enough to hope that a book of eloquently worded nonsense could ever help him?

Yet it was within his nature to _try_ – and the results left him in deep disturbance.

~ § ~

“Crow,” Counsellor Tyelcano read softly to himself, secretly hoping that by naming the monster, he could gain the strength to defeat it. “Always a symbol of failure and death. The scream of crows means the loss of a loved one, or upcoming grave news.”

_They would not stay silent._

“If the crow flies close to you, that is a sign of approaching death or deadly danger.”

_They were about to feast on me._

“Then there is mist. An obscured landscape foretells tribulations and likely failures in the future. And mountains: they mean tasks and missions. Snowy peaks in the distance mean that I aim too high, and they also signify upcoming misunderstandings with a superior.”

_Why does that frighten me just as much as death?_

“To descend from a rocky mountain means small success – well, at least, that much is granted. Then there is blood… bleeding foretells a long and grave illness… Blood flowing from a wound is an announcement of sorrows and afflictions; also, an unhappy love affair or a dispute with a valued friend.”

_Good to know that I am now to be involved in love affairs, albeit unhappy ones. One learns ‘til death, and then some._

“Blood-soaked clothes refer to the enemies that want to destroy the dreamer’s career; they should be wary of new friendships,” Tyelcano read further, and though he forced out a chuckle through his teeth, he felt a very uncomfortable pang in the pit of his stomach.

“Being chased in a dream means fear of confrontation in a certain matter. If one manages to control their visions, if one turns around and confronts their pursuer, then they shall face the one they are afraid of, and the torment of dreams may end. The distance between dreamer and pursuer is telling; if the pursuer is at the dreamer’s heels, the source of frustration is not going to go away by itself, and needs tending.”

 _If I could control these dreams, they would be filled with sunny green fields, horses running in the sunset and the lights of Tirion_.

“And there is the gate. Standing in front of a gate means upcoming debates, or the necessity of taking position in council; it can as well signify the start of a new period in the dreamer’s life.”

_Well, this new period looks slightly stormy._

Counsellor Tyelcano closed his eyes for a few moments, as if battling himself; then he took his quill, and began to note each one of the meanings precisely, including page numbers, references and footnotes.

By that time, soft light filtered into the room from behind the heavy curtains; and when he took a break from his work to open a window, a hint of morning breeze and the song of a wayward thrush brought him a promise of spring - and the song of a lyre.

To Tyelcano’s great delight, the sound was approaching. Careful not to disturb the musician, he left the window-sill and settled back behind his desk, slightly turning his armchair towards the incoming fresh air.

His new position proved excellent to observe as Tyelkormo, son of Fëanáro slid through the open window in a most theatrical manner, swinging the ominous lyre before him as if it was a wounded animal in need of caring. He had been nowhere to be found in the past three days; and the memory of their last meeting suddenly crushed down between him and the Counsellor as a wall of iron.

“Good morn to you, lordship,” Tyelcano said frigidly. “I am most glad to see that your instinctive good manners are returning.”

 “Good morn, Counsellor,” said Celegorm, visibly not sure if he was allowed closer. “You must excuse me. My thoughts are… wandering lately.”

“You should not let them loose,” Tyelcano nodded, a bit more measuredly than he had intended. He was _furious_ with both Tyelkormo and Curufinwë; yet now, that one of the pair appeared this unexpectedly, it would have been graceless to show that. And Counsellor Tyelcano was proud to be an exceedingly polite Elf.

 “May I ask, why the instrument…?” He swiftly asked, instead of letting lose the thunderstorm of chiding that lingered on the tip of his tongue. Lord Tyelkormo was no longer a child, after all. None of the Seven Sons were.

_(They were far worse now)._

“By no means shall I ever rival good old Makalaurë,” Celegorm said with a thin smile, “yet letting my thoughts loose was my very intention. I hope you shall hear them someday, once they are arranged into a song.”

“As do I,” said Tyelcano.

 _He does look healthier than mere days before._ _Maybe those thoughts – or getting rid of them - shall bring him solace, whatever that might mean to him._

Celegorm was still holding the lyre, shifting his weight from one leg to the other in discomfort. The last time Tyelcano saw him doing this, the lord did not reach higher than his elbow.

“What is it that you are writing, Counsellor?” Celegorm suddenly asked, and he tried in vain to discern the question behind question.

“This…,” he shut _The Nature o’ Visions_ with a swift, fluid motion, and clicked the lid of the inkwell, “is a short report in an important matter, one that I should present to Lord Nelyo this eve.”

 “I see,” Celegorm nodded, and pulled a chair to the other side of Tyelcano’s desk so they would face each other. “Listen, Counsellor. I know that you are furious with me… with us… and you are right. I can’t believe we were fool enough to believe we could deceive _you…”_ His face was clean and fair, his large grey eyes so bright that one could drown in them. “…and to tell the truth: I want to have a word with you ever since the day we met in the Marshes. A private word. It would have been best to speak before our… well, our trial, but I dare hope that it’s not entirely too late. We still have about three hours before Curvo departs.”

 _“Departs?”_ Tyelcano grabbed hold of the desk, lest he’d swing right backwards. “Are you trying to tell me that your lord brother would rather choose exile than absolution?”

“We are already in exile, Counsellor,” Celegorm grinned sardonically. “And I assure you, Curvo would rather fight a dragon with his fists alone than ever renounce the title of lord.”

“Lord Nelyo did not tell me,” Tyelcano whispered. “Not even a word… not even the slightest mention of it…”

“I think he likes to pretend it’s not about to happen, yet Curufinwë _shall_ leave if we won’t do something! And I assure you, Counsellor, I would deeply grieve such an outcome. Which is why I am now asking for your help… well, in fact, I only want to ask you a question.”

“If your father heard you speak in such mazy words, he would knock your head with an anvil!” Tyelcano snapped, tugging _The Nature o’ Visions_ in the foldings on his cloak, since Celegom’s gaze had wandered dangerously close to the matted cover lately. “Say what you will, lordship, and say it swiftly, if time is indeed as short as you claim!”

“Clearly speaking,” said Celegorm in an irritatingly precise tone – _one that veiled the deepest of sorrows,_ Tyelcano realized -, “I should ask: does assaulting someone is a crime if they picked up their sword first?”

“In that case,” said Tyelcano slowly, “the act counts as self-defence, and not an assault. Never as an assault.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Celegorm crossed his arms tight against his chest. “Well, let’s say there are two allied… people. One of them is attacked and brought to the ground, and seeing this, their companion becomes enraged, and attacks as well…”

“That is camaraderie,” Tyelcano raised his brows.

“And if it’s one’s brother who falls on the ground, and is threatened with death - which, in this particular case, would be Curvo…”

 _The Nature o’ Visions_ fell from Tyelcano’s lap, its rootlet hit the ground with a loud _knock,_ and the book opened up right at _“crow”, “crown”_ and _“cruelty”_ \- but the Counsellor could not care less.

“For the Stars of Varda, _child,”_ he exclaimed, forgetting himself, “what happened?!”

“A few weeks after we left Nargothrond,” said Celegorm, his voice suddenly low, “wind rose in the East. We were riding north; in fact, we were heading here after what befell us. We felt wronged, betrayed, humiliated; and we hoped that our kinsmen here would greet us kindly. Therefore, we raced along the wastelands, fast as our horses could get; and it happened thus that we came upon the daughter of Melian and that mortal Man anew. I shan’t say their names; for I have cursed them under cloud and skies as a farewell, cursed them to the last days of Arda. I have not felt such hatred since Atar died.”

“Yet we met them nevertheless; and thought we would try for the last time to escort the maiden back to the woodlands of Doriath, to his father where he belonged – and I do not care what is whispered behind my back, _you know me,_ Counsellor; and _I give you my word_ that that time, such was indeed my only intention - though I must admit there was a certain thirst for vengeance in it. Thus my brother sprang forward when we saw them, his lance across his chest. Hunters use that trick as a means of defence; and yet the Man sprang forward and kicked him from the saddle. As I rode upon them, all I saw was my brother, my flesh and blood lying in the dust, being strangled, upon the very brink of death. The most burning, the most maddeningly furious dismay had possessed me then, and I came upon that Man, wounded him… and I wanted to kill him, Counsellor, I wanted to kill him more than everything… for he took _everything_ from me! I could have torn him, shredded him to pieces. Yet I did not; for the witch turned my Huan, my faithful Huan, my terrible Huan against me, his own master; and I had to lie down, soundless, motionless, while the rotten paws of that monstrous Man were still around my brother’s neck!”

Celegorm paused in his tale, and Tyelcano supposed he should say something, but all sound stuck in his throat.

“Is that why I haven’t seen Lord Curvo without a collar since you came here?” He finally managed in an unnaturally calm voice.

“Quite so. Back in the Marshes, dirt hid the marks well enough; yet now beneath the cloth, his colours put the birds of Valinórë to shame. And months have passed!”

Tyelcano shook his head. “But what happened _afterwards?”_

“The witch decided that she’d grant us mercy,” Celegorm shrugged. “And the hideous pair went on their way; but they stripped us of our weapons first. They took my brother’s knife, my sword and lance, a scimitar we’d found on the road… thankfully, the witch was gracious enough to let me guard my bow and a few arrows so we’d not starve on the road - yet in the end, we did, nevertheless. If they wanted to humiliate us, this was a spectacular way to do it. The mortal did not murder my brother, and for that much, I am thankful; yet it angers me that he only let him live out of scornful amusement. The world now treats us as criminals and murderers – yet I tell you, Counsellor, the Witch and her Thrall are no better. And ‘tis us who are labelled kidnappers and rogues.”

“Well, you are no paragons of innocence, either,” Tyelcano gave Celegorm a long, wary look. “I have not forgotten what happened the last time Lord Nelyo decided to trust your straightforwardness.”

“Once again you are right, Counsellor; we have lied, and we have wronged you. We made a terrible mistake. Yet you know just as well as I that we are no evil!”

“How do I know that you are not lying _right now?”_ Tyelcano crossed his arms. “That you’re not trying to bend the facts your own way? I was not there, and nor was any other who has or who is about to judge you. All one can rely on are your own words of honour – if you still know what honour means.”

“If you want to hate someone, hate _me,”_ said Celegorm, and the fervour in his voice was so great it made the Counsellor’s heart jump into his throat. “I _did_ kidnap the witch. She wormed her way into my head, beguiled my thoughts. And afterwards, I wanted to… I tried to kill her, Counsellor. My blood was boiling, I was furious, I was _afraid_ , I have never felt such elemental hatred in my life, and…”

Fury, distrust and bad blood were all forgotten as their eyes met, and all of a sudden, Tyelcano discerned the one incurable illness the other was suffering from – one he’s never been plagued by, yet one he saw many times of his life already. And from that moment on, he _understood;_ and he felt in his entire being that this understanding would become an unspoken secret they shared, from that moment to the last they would share on Arda marred.

And yet he said nothing: for words were given meaning and shape, and were _acknowledged_ when they were spoken - and some things are best left unacknowledged.

“What can I do for you, _cundunya?”_ he said instead, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, his heart suddenly filled with a strange mingle of scorn, fondness and pity.

“Make Curvo stay,” Celegorm simply said.

_Indeed. Because I am not already determined to follow good reason. You have yet to get on your knees and beg me._

“And why would I want him here?” Tyelcano said aloud. “All he brought to this castle so far was strife and scandal. Other than the hot water tubes, of course – for that much, the household is forever thankful.”

The Counsellor felt a sudden urge to laugh as Celegorm opened his mouth to voice his disaccord, then closed it; then reopened it, only to close it again in shock.

“You – you were jesting, right?” he finally managed. “You… Counsellor, you are _able_ to jest?”

“Who knows?” Counsellor Tyelcano said smoothly as he stood and slid his precious notebook into his pocket, along with _The Nature o’ Visions._ “Now, lordship -  you might have the whole day to dance around and write mediocre poetry, but some people have _work_ to do in this castle. A pleasure to have seen ye!”

And with grace, he walked out of the room.

  * ~ § ~ §



Lord Curufinwë Fëanárion was housed in one of the most airy and comfortable suits in the castle, and Tyelcano shook his head in displeasure when he saw that most of the windows had not been opened in a whole week, or even more. Dust was starting to gather near their hinges, and many of the shutters were closed.

All of the lord’s earthly possessions – two half-packed bundles – were gathered on the bed, thrown carelessly across freshly changed sheets and covers, and Curufin himself was nowhere to be seen; so Tyelcano settled down to the edge of the bed, and waited. His eyelids were already starting to get heavier when he heard the pounding of approaching steps and the soft creak of the opening door.

If Tyelcano thought that Curufin was about to show shame or even the slightest glint of remorse, he was deeply mistaken. The lord’s face was fair and smooth as ever; and as their gazes met, a sparkle of sardonic mischief kindled in his eyes, then went out immediately.

“Good morn, Counsellor,” came the most casual greeting Tyelcano had ever heard in his long life. “How fare ye?”

 _Pleading will not help me here,_ the Counsellor decided. _And nor will anything else._

Still he said, with a winsome smile,

“How fare I? Very thoughtful of you to ask. Now that you’re on your way, lordship - remarkably well, thank you.”

“And still you’re sitting here like a faithful old dog,” Curufin shot back at him.

“Old dogs give the worst bites. Careful you be, or they might fester.”

Their words lingered long in the dusty air, and Tyelcano felt an ember of determination spark in the depths of his heart.

_I will not let this happen. I am Heru Tÿelkáno of Kuiviénen, older than the Sun and the Moon, older than the dwellings and kingdoms of the Kwendi. If there is a way, any way to save this child, I shall find it and see it through._

“It is against your nature to feast upon the sorrow of others, Counsellor. Why are you here? What may I do for you?” Curufin crossed his arms. Standing still, he towered above Tyelcano like a watchtower.

Tyelcano held those terrible keen eyes with his own, his whole being hardened to steel.

“You can promise me that you shall die quickly out in the wilderness,” he said calmly, though he felt as though he could cry. “And without any theatrical scene for your brothers to suffer through.”

_Silence._

Curufin opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again - much like his brother, mere minutes before. Yet this time, Tyelcano did not even feel the slightest stir of humour in his heart.

“Counsellor,” Curufin finally said, “I… I am wounded.”

The knife was in his chest, and it took all Tyelcano’s willpower to twist it.

“Oh,” he rolled his eyes, “Save me the sea of your self-pity lest I drown in it, and do us all a favour for one time in your life, lordship. Your things are packed and I don’t see anyone begging you on their knees to unpack them. Go!”

 _“Counsellor!”_ Curufin’s eyes were wide, his face suddenly pale.

“Do not try to tell me you don’t know _exactly_ what you are doing, you cruel, cruel Elf,” said Tyelcano, as disparagingly as he could. “Begone, and swiftly! I do not wish to see you – ever again.”

His heart was crying as he beheld the ghastly pale, mask-like face of Curufin. The lie kept floating in the empty air between them, and silence made it grow; then the understanding of it finally settled in Curufin’s eyes. The lord’s fist clenched, and a single wave of tremble rushed along his body; then he let the air out of his lungs with a stormy sigh.

“You are standing in the doorway, Counsellor,” he said.

“That is because I am not done with you just yet. You have to promise me another thing.”

“I cannot even promise dying quickly enough for you,” came the answer. “I shan’t chain myself with another engagement.”

“Do you really not understand, _little prince?!”_ Tyelcano seethed. “Can you even _imagine_ what shall happen when He catches you alive? For ‘tis not an “if”, ‘tis a “when”. As soon as Moringotto shall have word of what happened between you and your brothers, he shall hunt you down and drag you to his dark dwellings so you may never see the Sun again. And your brothers will not come after you, Curufinwë; for if they do, that shall be the death of us all. I _cannot_ let that happen.”

Tyelcano’s eyes were suddenly filled with a strange kind of hot mist, one he would not acknowledge as the gathering of tears.

“Do you not see how cruelly you misuse your brothers’ trust? Do you not see how deeply you shall wound Lord Nelyo by being caught and put through the same torment he had suffered? Do you not see how Moringotto has you now, how he controls you, how he puts strifes between you and your loved ones, how he makes you deceive and betray others? He has won, Curufinwë: you and your deeds are the living proofs of his victory.”

“I cannot, _will not_ bend your will, young lord, and no one else will. You have chosen loneliness and exile rather than family and a small victory over the Enemy, and that is your row to hoe. Yet I tell you now, the only place he shall never find you are the Halls of Mandos. You have let on evil happen, Curufinwë, and your brothers are divided. Stop right here, and don’t let that poison kill you all.”

“You gave up on me,” Curufin whispered.

“Was that not what you wished for?”

_“You gave up on me!”_

The hot mist cascaded into tears, and ran down Tyelcano’s cheeks.

“I have no choice, lordship. With or without you, I _must_ carry on. I _must_ lead the household and aid your family. I _must_ stand up against the Enemy as long as I am able. I _need to_ stay sane and whole, and attend to my tasks. As do your brothers… and as do _you,_ Curufinwë. But I cannot, and will not force you.”

“What would you have me do?” Curufin snapped. “I am declared a traitor and a murderer, exiled from Nargothrond, exiled from Doriath, exiled from fair Valinórë across the Sea… maybe not even Námo would let me dwell in his Halls! My own kin turned against me. My own children forsook me… and you, Counsellor, you made me sit on your knees when I was little, yet even _you_ have turned your back on me! I see no way back – _a dead end awaits! The gates are closed!”_

Tyelcano’s eyes widened.

 _“Will you open them?”_ he said slowly, unaware of his own speech. _“Or will you let the world wither?”_

Curufin’s face and voice were both calm as he asked anew,

“What would you have me do? Crawl on my knees? Beg for mercy with fake tears? I have no tears left to cry, Counsellor.”

“I want you to stop running, Atarinke,” said Tyelcano measuredly. “Wherever you go, you shall never be free of yourself. If you want to help us, swallow your pride, stay, and work for the well-being of our people, as we all do. If you won’t… then no-one can hold you back.”

 _“The well-being of our people_!” Curufin’s laugh was devoid of amusement. “Was that what Father said to you at Losgar? No, Counsellor: we have sworn our Oath, and we did not swear lightly. Our words of honour bind us, burn us, kill us all. And we need to fulfil our promise, to see it through. For me, nothing else matters.”

“That cannot be true. You are a noble lord from a house of Kings. All you need to do is start acting like one.”

“And renouncing that title of lordship right away?” Curufin’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you can’t understand… that is all I have left.”

 _“For now!”_ Tyelcano sighed in exasperation. “Would you not try and get your family, your friends and your honour back instead? Would you not find work for your hands in this castle, instead of getting caught and brought to Angamando as Moringotto’s plaything?”

“I don’t want to be patronized and humiliated,” Curufin hissed. Tyelcano felt a maddening flash of anger in the back of his head, but before he could grab the other Elf by the shoulders and shake him as he suddenly wished to, Curufin’s fist clenched, and he added slowly, sadly, “And I could not face Nelyo and Makalaurë again after… after what happened in that room.”

“That choice is yours to make,” said Tyelcano. Despite all efforts he could make, his voice trembled a little. “Yet it is very painful to watch you turn and fall into a pit while standing at the very beginning of a new path. I wish I’d taught you better, lordship.”

“You taught me well,” Curufin said, hesitating. “Yet… I do not think I have the strength, nor the will to start a fruitless battle for my honour and credibility. My brothers shall never trust me again. _You_ shall never trust me again.”

“It is said that the blades of trust are hard to forge and easy to blunt,” Tyelcano said, “yet once they are sharpened anew, they slice the very stones from the earth. And you, lordship, are a forgeron.”

There was nothing else he could say or do. Slowly, he extended his hand…

And the long, slim fingers of Curufinwë Fëanárion slid between his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Excerpts from The Lay of Leithian, Canto X.:  
>  „But as they came the horses swerved  
> with nostrils wide and proud necks curved;  
> Curufin, stooping, to saddlebow  
> with mighty arm did Luthien throw,  
> and laughed.”
> 
> “[...]and with a roar  
> leaped on Curufin; round his neck  
> his arms entwined, and all to wreck  
> both horse and rider fell to ground;  
> and there they fought without a sound.”  
> „[…]the Gnome felt Beren's fingers grim  
> close on his throat and strangle him,  
> and out his eyes did start, and tongue  
> gasping from his mouth there hung.  
> Up rode Celegorm with his spear,  
> and bitter death was Beren near.”  
> For your information: Celegorm believes he is entirely honest here – because from his own point of view, he is. (Yet he is not).
> 
> What I did here is a shameless re-interpretation of events. As stated several times in my Author’s Notes, this story tries to find a balance between mythological lays and modern novelisation – which means that while certain magical, unexplainable elements do exist, many events described in ’The Silmarillion’ are handled as – well, legends.  
> In the Lay of Leithian, Celegorm and Curufin are villains. In my stories, they are not (or not entirely); and Celegorm did not know that Curufin had intended to kill Lúthien. In the text, it looks pretty much like he wanted nothing more at that point than to save his brother’s life. So in this case – shame on me – I’ll interpret the passage that says „They saw the wanderers. With a shout / straight on them swung their hurrying rout / as if neath maddened hooves to rend / the lovers and their love to end” as the malice of the scribe who had worded the tale ;) which of course still doesn’t mean that the brothers are innocent.
> 
> Tyelcano was born in Cuiviénen in YT4600 (the year when Melkor was chained and brought to Valinor, to be sentencted into the Halls of Mandos for the following three Ages to come. This means that his age can be determined in both Tree and Sun-years, thus the difference between calculations. (One Tree-year equals around 9,75 Sun-years). This means that at the beginning of this story, our Counsellor is 4367 sun-years old – only slightly younger than Elrond was when Olórin came to Middle-Earth in the disguise of Gandalf (just to see the proportions).
> 
> The motto of this chapter means “Better to be dead than disgraced”[as my own translation from classical Latin. If you google it, you shall find “death before dishonour”].
> 
> The dream-meanings were found either all around the Internet, or – in some cases – in an old Hungarian dream-book I found in my childhood home’s basement.


	14. A Bitter Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fourteenth instalment - in which all those who wanted to know where Caranthir was and what he was up to finally get their answer.

 

_“So nigh is grandeur to our dust,_

_So near is God to man,_

_When Duty whispers low, 'Thou must,'_

_The youth whispers, 'I can.”_

_(Ralph Waldo Emerson)_

* * *

 

**XIV. A Bitter Cup**

**The Falls of Sirion, FA 467, the last day of Víressë**

Erenis was sitting on the fresh-smelling ground, her hands folded in her lap, lest she’d resume her nervous fidgeting. She could feel Tyelperinquar’s steps in her bones as he paced across the small clearing around their camp: _back and forth, back and forth, back and forth_. She could also hear the merry tune Gwindor was plucking on his bowstring, tautening and loosening it in different angles. Her friend did not wander far among the trees and the sound was no more than a dwindling echo: still, she found it maddening.

The Falls were roaring like thunder in the distance, and Erenis felt a sudden pang of curiosity. She had never seen the mighty Sirion before as its waters fell beneath the earth, only to spring forth from their stony grave under the hills a whole nine leagues further. Such a sight would be breath-taking, she knew – and definitely worth the time while she and her companions were forced to wait.

 _He wrote he would come,_ Erenis repeated to herself: a promise she was adamant on believing. _And he will. And once he came, he shan’t leave without having spoken to me._

That thought was enough to help her stand and weave her hair into a lazy braid. She felt a sudden urge to whistle as she adjusted her boots, yet she knew she had to remain subtle and silent. And - most of all -, princesses did not whistle.

(Then again, she was no longer a princess).

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Tyelpe’s voice was sharp as a razor-blade, hard as the bits of steel his hands bended to his will through countless hours of hard labour each day. Even now that they were outside the smithy, above the earth, and well away from the eternal battle of hammers and anvils, his body moved like a tool, or a set of cogwheels…

 _A machine oiled to perfection,_ Erenis concluded. It made her sad; she could remember times when her brother was less of steel and more of warm, melted gold.

“It is my begetting day,” she said, hands on her hips, “so you have the obligation of politeness to please me, or at least to leave me alone if you can’t do that. I go wherever I like, and I do not see how anyone may deny me that. Already you’re insulting me by making that natural right sound like a privilege,” she concluded with a playful grin.

 “As things are now, what you see as a natural right is dangerously close to transgression,” Tyelperinquar crossed his arms. “These lands are getting more and more dangerous, little sister. You have already pressed the King’s benevolence by leaving his Halls and dragging us along with you; and now you’re planning to leave even _our_ care! If I were less vigilant, you would have slipped away already, silent as a shade, perhaps for never to return. And for such a pointless reason! These hills are silent. There is nothing here but deserted roads, gloomy forests and crows prowling over abandoned carcasses.”

“Why should we still linger here, Erenis? _He shall not come._ Perhaps he’d intended to; perhaps he’s been detained; perhaps he’s been killed for all we know. We may learn about that later, to our joy or sorrow, but there is nothing we could ever hope to do _now_ – such is the course of life. We can only sit and watch. That may be maddening, but it won’t change the very simple fact that _he will not come,_ at least, not in time for us to meet him. We should be back at the Halls in five days; you know that. Lest the Gate shall be sealed. If we hit the road in this instant, there will still be a danger we wouldn’t make it home!”

“Let the Gate be sealed,” Erenis shrugged. _“He will come,_ I tell you. He must. He is our uncle!”

“We have a couple of uncles, dear one,” Tyelperinquar sighed, “and this far, none of them have proved particularly helpful. And even if they were – would that change anything?”

“Yes. We could make them understand… and we could perhaps hear some news…”

“I am not interested in news,” her brother’s voice was hardening back to merciless steel. “I am only interested in putting a barrier in front of your reckless stupidity and escorting you back below the earth where we belong.”

“You seem to be in a particularly good mood today, sweetheart,” Erenis laughed. “Come, let me tend to your hair. You look positively horrible.”

“Sometimes, appearances are not half as deceptive as one would think.”

Though Tyelperinquar did not seem to emerge from his black mood, the corners of his mouth _did_ turn a little upwards; and for Erenis, that was a true achievement. Humming softly, she ran her fingers through her brother’s thick, coal-smelling tresses, and braided them to a similar fashion as she’d done with her own. She could not resist, and planted a small kiss on Tyelperinquar’s forehead; and her large, broad-shouldered, fiery-eyed, fierce brother wound his arms around her neck (the strength, the heat, the pulse of blood in those huge limbs were almost frightening), and let himself collapse for three entire heartbeats.

“I have made something for you,” he said then, murmuring softly against the neckline of her tunic, and Erenis stirred.

“You shouldn’t have,” she whispered immediately, not daring to raise her eyes.

“Whyever not?”

“Because ‘tis nothing like the gifts _I_ could make _you,_ and you know that. I thought that our agreement would last, and you’d once again write me bad poetry. I was even looking forward to it!”

“Oh, but I did, and it’s worse than ever. Yet I could not resist the urge to give you something useful as well, something you shall – unfortunately – be needing... If I tell you that Gwindor’s gift comes together with mine, and mine is less than half of it, shall your wrath pass us by harmlessly?”

“I cannot estimate the degree of harm,” Erenis sighed, “but it shall pass.”

“How reassuring,” Gwindor’s merry voice interrupted from among the nearby trees. “I thought you’d never get across the dog-fight part, then the dramatically dark part, then the poetically emotional part, and then…”

“That will be quite enough _then,_ thank you,” Tyelperinquar snapped, but the shadow of worry seemed to have lightened upon his brows. “Shall we get to the gift-giving part?”

“Oh, I insist,” came the answer; and Erenis knew her fate was sealed. Whatever her begetting day gift was, it was now bound to be given (and accepted).

“Well, here it is,” said her brother without any grandeur or glamour, and unbuckled a small scabbard from his belt. Erenis had long before noticed the carefully protected weapon but paid no heed to mention it; there could be a handful of chisels stuffed inside the shiny leather case for all she knew. “May it protect you from any harm; may it sharpen your conscience; may it keep your mind clearer than the waters of long-lost Valinórë. Happy begetting day, dearest one!”

Careful and more than a little wary, Erenis took the scabbard from her brother’s hand, her fingers clutching the delicate hilt.

 _A dagger,_ she thought, amazed. _But why would I need one?_

When it came to forging, or any other handicraft, Erenis was well and truly unskilled: a bitter truth she’d already learned to accept. Yet nothing could erase the long years of experience she’d earned in her father’s and grandfather’s smithies: lessons, scolding, rare praise and merciless exactitude. Erenis could tell good work from bad, excellent from good, and perfect from excellent. And this dagger – as anything and everything her brother made these days – was _perfect,_ from the tiniest adorned branches and leaves from the soft, rosily gleaming gemstone at the middle of its pommel, or the airy engravings that ran across the silver blade.

“You have outdone yourself, this time, Tyelpë,” said Erenis, trying very hard not to sound jealous towards the maker of her own gift. “It’s wondrously beautiful – and deadly. Whyever would you give this to me? And how could this be less than half of my gift…? Am I getting Gwindor’s old armour too, perhaps to protect my childlike innocence?”

“Now that would be a sight!” Gwindor snorted. “Nay, little one: the truth is much simpler than that. Your brother placed the weapon into your hand; and I shall be giving the lessons.”

“Lessons?” Erenis’s eyed widened. “Are you actually implying that I am to learn how to kill?”

“Or how to defend yourself,” Tyelperinquar said. “I assure you, sweet sister, that I do not particularly like the image of you running around with sharpened bits of steel. Yet the world, as I have told you before, is dangerous; and I am willing to cope with such inconveniences if they could by any means save your life one day.”

“I have already killed once, Tyelpë,” Erenis swallowed, “you know that. I didn’t know what it meant, I didn’t even _want_ to do it, yet no one shall ever forgive it. And I cannot, _will_ not do it again, perhaps not even to an Orc. It makes my stomach turn. You, who has the power and talent to _make_ things, might not be entirely stranger to my silent wish to try and _let things be_.”

“That is all well,” Tyelperinquar said, “but there are some evil things in this world, sister, that do not seem very willing to let us be in return.”

“That is not what my heart tells me, but I grant you this much: you may not _need_ to kill ever again,” Gwindor added, “yet it is our wish that you wouldn’t feel the slightest stir of blood if a servant of the Enemy tries to attack or capture you.”

“That depends on the servant, I think,” Erenis smiled with an effort, “but I hear you. All right – if there is no obligation to kill: then, and only then shall I accept your gift, and cherish it.”

“That much is settled, then,” Gwindor nodded ceremonially. Tyelperinquar was silent.

Upon some unspoken agreement, they all turned to the far West in the rising wind. Now, the roar of the Falls was only a distant whisper behind the rustling of verdure and birds scratching about in the undergrowth. Not far before them, there was a narrow opening between the trees, and they could see a few miles to the empty air above the woodlands of Andram.

“Where are the guards?” Tyelperinquar asked, just when Erenis was about to forget their helpless and endangered state, imagining that they were out on a simple trip in the wilderness.

“Scattered around this hill, and down a bit further in the woods,” came Gwindor’s answer. “No foe himself could take us by surprise.”

“We never know what Moringotto is capable of,” Tyelperinquar gritted his teeth. “Not since the Battle of the Flames.”

“Can we just call him the Enemy?” Gwindor flinched. “I mislike that name.”

“A banned language to curse a backboneless foe,” Tyelperinquar smiled dangerously. “More than fitting - wouldn’t you agree?”

“No more rowan berries today, mellon nín. You’re bitterer than a heartbroken maid!”

 _“Stop squabbling and listen!”_ Erenis sang in her clear voice. “Someone is coming.”

“Better be the guards,” Tyelperinquar gave his friend a sidelong look, “or I shall have to deeply question your trustworthiness, Lord Gwindor.”

“You need not question it, Your Insufferableness. Here comes a familiar face!”

The silhouette that emerged from among the silent tumult of trees was one of their guards indeed; he bowed before them then spoke, his voice tense and hushed:

“My Lords, my Lady; a lone rider is approaching from the far North. He mounts a strong stallion, and seems to be in a great hurry. Shall we let him pass?”

“I told you!” Erenis exclaimed, her fingernails digging into her brother’s arm for a thoughtless moment. “I told you he’d come!”

“We cannot be sure,” Gwindor said immediately. “We have to verify – “

“Who else could it be?”

“Someone who wants us dead,” Tyelperinquar snapped. “Anyone! You cannot just _trust_ people blindly!”

“We are surrounded by guards, and the rider is alone. Uncle Carnistir is _here_ , Tyelpë; and he could kill our whole entourage in a single fit of rage if he only wanted. And that much is true about many of our enemies. Let us use our precious time and go.”

~ § ~

Together, they began their descent to the declivous vale that opened between a pair of the low, forest-covered hills above the Fens of Sirion. The moist, ungrateful smell of the close moorlands brushed Erenis’s nostrils from time to time; it was not a pleasant sensation, but she greeted it with her usual quiet dignity. Restraining herself from racing ahead, she even kept her hand of the hilt of her new dagger, for she knew it was expected of her. She tried hard not to ponder how empty that treat would seem to even the clumsiest of foes.

Gwindor and his guards had set up a makeshift camp in the middle of a grove of ebony trees, at the very bottom of the valley. Their horses were grazing about at a close-by glade, rays of morning sun dancing around in their brown coats. Most of their small entourage had gathered at the camp by the time of their arrival, forming a wide circle around the already dismounted foreign rider. The newcomer was tall, broad-shouldered, heavily built, more than a little ragged… and - without any doubt –, he was Carnistir, son of Fëanáro.

As soon as Erenis met his eyes, she shouted _‘Uncle!’_ and sprang forward to greet him. Lithe and light as she was, she thought she could slam with full force in his chest and did not even make him reel; but Carnistir cried out in a voice thick with pain,

“Careful – CAREFUL you little fiend!”

Erenis immediately released him, and stared at him with uncertain alarmedness - and the more closely she looked, the more curious things could she notice about her uncle indeed.

Uncle Carnistir was _dirty,_ to begin with – he, who had always paid ridiculous amounts of care and attention to his garments, he who had made efforts to look good and smell good, he who braided his hair every morning, he who kept his teeth whiter than the gems wrought in her grandfather’s goblets… Moreover, he was injured. His left arm seemed fastened to his chest with stripes of dirty linen, and his wide, black cloak billowed about his form like bat-wings in the rising wind.

If Erenis wanted to be entirely honest, Uncle Carnistir did not look like himself at all – save for his large, lively eyes, his broad smile and the booming great voice that echoed on in the pit of her stomach whenever it spoke.

Silence fell to the grove of trees for a few seconds; then Carnistir spoke again, his voice slightly clearer now:

“I was afraid you might leave before I get here. I was also afraid you’d be insane like me and come alone. I’m glad I was wrong.”

“My sweet sister would not have hesitated to make that mistake,” said Tyelperinquar, who was still standing at the edge of the glade, in the exact same position as three minutes before. “Thankfully, she has me.” He then addressed the Elves around them. “Be at peace, for the one we sought has come to us. We shall sit in council for an hour or two; Lord Gwindor shall see to your tasks.”

At the mention of his name, Gwindor came forth, and bowed slightly. “Greetings, Lord Caranthir,” he said in his schooled Sindarin. “My name is Gwindor, and I am Captain of the King in Nargothrond. I am most glad that you found us.”

“Yes, I imagine that,” crackled Carnistir in the same tongue and dialect, and Erenis wondered what happened to his voice. “Thank you kindly, Captain; you may leave us alone for now. I wish to talk to my niece and nephew without you cave-dwellers pricking your ears about.”

If Gwindor of any of his kinsmen were offended, they did not show it; and Erenis had to admit that the playful insult rather humoured than annoyed her.

“They will have to stay around,” she heard her brother saying. “Someone may have been following you, lordship, or simply lurking around in the woodlands. We cannot risk anyone finding us.”

“As you wish,” Carnistir said, his voice suddenly formal. “It seems that we have much to talk about, _m’lord, m’lady.”_

“Can we just skip the part when we act like strangers and move on to the second phase, where we’re actually overjoyed to see each other sane and whole?” Erenis snapped. She crossed the distance between herself and her uncle with two determined steps and stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his forehead. When Carnistir did not protest, she pulled him into another, less tight hug, now paying attention to his scars and injuries.

“I am quite willing to do that,” her uncle said through the curtain of her hair. “What say you, kinsman?”

“I did not mean to be rude,” said Tyelperinquar. “Too much things have happened lately, and I am not sure what should we call each other.”

“I will still call you my little nephew if you grow another head, dye your hair vibrant blue and decide to earn your living as an Orc impersonator,” said Carnistir with a shrug (then winced). “I did not come here to get lost in the intrigues of our unfortunate family… I have news for you if you care to hear them – good and bad.”

“And we have questions, Uncle,” said Erenis, looking him up and down without the slightest sort of subtlety. “So many questions. But will you not sit down?”

“It will not help my shattered state,” Carnistir sighed. “Just send your moles further off.”

“Uncle… you can’t just call the King’s best scouts _moles,”_ Tyelperinquar whispered depreciatingly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him, and turned slightly upwards. Finally, he gave in and walked off to Gwindor. After a brief exchange of murmurings, their guards disappeared among the thicket, and Erenis suddenly felt exposed.

“There we are,” Carnistir said when there was none other around them than his peacefully grazing horse. “Much better. Now, look at you – you both seem slightly troubled, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Tyelpë, those black circles below your eyes would be enough to silence a room. And Erenis, you’re fidgeting again. I have told you a million times not to do that. Curiously enough, you both look like tiny frightened animals – not a pair of bright young Elves who just shattered the shackles of their maniac, power-monger father.”

“We did not -,” Tyelprinquar shook his head, glimpsing his reflection in a small puddle of rainwater. “…are they really _that_ horrible?”

“I have never seen such magnificent circles,” Carnistir nodded. “I must congratulate you, really.”

“And you, Uncle?” Erenis burst out, folding her hands in her lap lest she’d resume her fidgeting. “What happened to you?”

“A friendly banter with Orcs, nothing more,” Carnistir said casually. “I will tell you later, but we don’t have much time. I would like to know at first what in Manwë’s holy name happened, how, and most importantly, _why_.”

And so Erenis began to talk. She spoke about the Battle of the Flames, about how they’ve fled; how they lived through their first years in Nargothrond; how their father’s and their Uncle Tyelko’s power grew and how they gradually changed; how did that slow, gradual change cascade in their father’s mind; how he started to treat them as tools who could only be used to serve his purposes or to please him; how they grew closer and closer to the folk of Nargothrond and how they became alienated from their own father. How their father hurt them, and how they both hurt him back. How their fights became recurrent, then common, then unceasing.

She finished her account before their last debate, leaving to Tyelperinquar the unpleasant task of recounting the rest: the betrayal, the riot, the fracture – and the deaf, puzzled vacancy that followed. When Tyelperinquar fell silent, Carnistir sighed boisterously (for a split second, Erenis was reminded of the billows in her father’s smithy), and asked:

“That would be all?”

“That would be all,” Tyelperinquar nodded.

“Are you sure? No mushy letters of explanation coming from your father? No declarations of unconditional love despite everything? Not even tears? No news, no blessings, no curses?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Carnistir shook his head.

“Blast it,” he declared. “I was hoping that rumours were a little bit less true. Could it be _all_ true, then…? You cannot imagine all the unholy things I have heard about your father.”

“I think things have passed a point,” Tyelperinquar said slowly, “where nothing should surprise us anymore.”

“No, Tyelpë, that is not true…” Erenis sighed. “Well, I hope it isn’t. It’s just… he’s not entirely acting like himself lately. But neither do we – neither does anyone. The whole world is mad with grief, and that’s…”

“That doesn’t excuse anything,” her brother retorted. “I’m tired of hearing the same weak arguments over and over. Ethics and morality are the sort of ground we should walk on: a ground that cannot be cut from under our feet. Some of our father’s deeds are inexcusable: you know that just as well as I. He has taken a path and we have taken another, and the two shall not collide.”

Carnistir finally settled down upon the ground, weighing his injured back slowly, gently against a boulder.

“What is the meaning of _inexcusable?”_ he said, his voice considerably clearer than before. “Something you cannot pardon? Something that shouldn’t be pardoned by the laws of justice or common sense? Something you just _don’t want_ to pardon?”

“All of that at once, I think,” Tyelperinquar answered him. He did not sit like his uncle or sister did; he was pacing around them in slow circles instead, sometimes wide, sometimes narrow, as if moving would help him settle his thoughts. “After all that you’ve heard, what do you think we should do?”

 _“Thinking_ would be much appreciated, I think,” Carnistir let out a stormy sigh. “Because we’re in horrid trouble. Did I guess correctly that the words of King Findaráto’s death were the last news you’ve heard?”

“We have heard all sort of nonsense since then,” Erenis sighed. “Envoys are either expected to promptly swallow all relevant information they possess, or there is none. Yet you cannot imagine the number of songs we’ve heard on the heroic Quest of Princess Lúthien and Beren the Mortal Man, how they tore down the gates of Angamando and attacked the Enemy in his sleep, then escaped with the Jewel…”

“The songs are true,” Carnistir said.

Tyelperinquar’s pacing stopped so abruptly Erenis almost gave a jump. Her brother was staring at their uncle as if he’d just grown a second head.

_“Excuse me?”_

“You have heard me,” Carnistir nodded gravely. “The songs say that Princess Lúthien stroke Moringotto with the lightning of Manwë, and burned his black hands with the Jewel; then she and Beren flew across the lands on Eagle-back, right to the Halls of Mandos where they were greated with applause and sent back to the world of the living at the mercy of the Valar. Most of it is rubbish, I expect, yet we know for certain that the Jewel has been stolen, and it is now in Doriath.”

“But they cannot have…,” Tyelperinquar stared at his open palms. “That’s impossible!”

“It _was,_ until it happened. Now, we know that Moringotto isn’t unassailable, and that there is a way to his halls. Yet we cannot expect him to fall back to sleep without avenging Beren’s and Lúthien’s little Quest. Of course, ‘tis not them who shall suffer – that shall be us, who still have the misfortune to be alive. And if the Enemy attacks again, we shall be in horrid trouble. Our forces are scattered, our watchtowers ruined, our weapons broken. So many of us have perished in the Battle of Flames! And our family, as always, stands closest to the fire; we can almost already feel its heat. In a few weeks, I shall be forced to abandon Amon Ereb and ride north to the ever-safe haven of Himring. Thargelion is lost. The Gap is lost. Arthórien is lost and Ossiriand falling. There is a huge gap between Estolad and Andram where no kin of us walks. Whoever might dwell in Taur-im-Duinath are cut off of us completely. And our new High King is a fellow so responsible that he walked straight up to the Iron Prison with a bow and a blasted harp! _Do you even realise how doomed the Ñoldor are?!_ For Valar’s sake, children, this is just not the time to throw a tantrum against your father! We are so few, so shattered… we should stick together! Did I really need to ride a hundred leagues just to remind you of that?!”

Erenis opened her mouth, but closed it immediately as she realised she had no answer to that. She was surprised to feel shame bubbling up from the depths of her fëa. She stole a shy glance at her brother, but Tyelperinquar’s features were calm as a mountain lake, at sharp as steel.

“Are you saying that the charges we hold against our father are unjust?”

“I shan’t deny that your father can be an unholy bastard at times, if that is what you want to hear,” their uncle sighed. “Yet what I am truly saying is that this is no time for _justice,_ Tyelpë, but for survival. Moringotto will hunt us down and serve our heads with pastries upon his table if we don’t act quickly enough. We should help each other while we can. For family’s sake. For honour’s sake.”

“These two just don’t seem to fit together anymore in my eyes,” said Tyelperinquar gravely. “My father’s late deeds disgust me. I do not regard myself as part of the family anymore: this I have told him. I care for you and love you for old times’ sake but I have no wish for participating in further kinslayings.”

“What do you think of us, Tyelpë?!” Carnistir’s voice was barely more than a whisper, yet the red heat of indignation creeped up his neck and coloured his cheeks. _“What do you think of us?!_ That we kill Moriquendi out of sport?! That it would bring us joy or any sort of satiety to start another war?! Who do you think we are? Criminals? Robbers? Rogues…?”

“He’s not…,” Erenis tried to say, but Tyelperinquar raised his hand.

“Yes, I am! I am saying this, and _I am meaning it!_ You swore an Oath we did not swear, therefore you may be forced to do things we cannot, we should not, we _will not_ relate to. If that is so hard for you to accept, why won’t you try and fight your Oath?”

 _“For the same reason why I will not reach out to pluck the moon from the skies!”_ Carnistir bellowed. _“Because it’s bloody impossible!_ Do you think I have never tried?! That I have never…”

He suddenly fell silent, hiding his face in his palms for a moment that seemed like Ages. Erenis tried to think of something, anything to say, but her tongue went dry and words eluded her.

“Did you come here to try and lure us back to the father we’ve denied?” Tyelperinquar asked sharply. “Because we’re only wasting our precious time, then.”

 _“Tyelpë!”_ Erenis sprang to her feet, dismayed. “Can’t you hear your own speech?! You’re being outrageously rude!”

“I’m being honest!” Her brother’s hands were tightened into fists. “Is that something to resent?”

“Yes, if you’re using your honesty to deliberately hurt others!”

“I’m not trying to hurt him, I’m just trying to save time…”

“Save time for what? So you can go back to your toys in the smithy? So you can continue bathing in the King’s praise?”

“Stop this childish banter!” Carnistir snapped. _“Now_ we’re wasting time!”

With an effort, the siblings turned their eyes off each other, and looked reluctantly at their uncle, whose attitude, despite being dirty and ragged, still held some uncertain, but surely distinguishable means of authority.

“I came here because I care for you two,” Carnistir went on, his tone still harsher than usual. “Because we’re family. I don’t want to bend your will, nor do I think I ever could. I don’t believe it was a good choice to turn your back on your father, but I can understand why you did it. Perhaps you made the right decision – that is for you to find out. Knowledge shall come with time. I merely want you to know that you don’t need to throw all our family away just because you’re at bad terms with your _Atar_. And if something, _anything_ goes awry, you shall always have a place in my… well, I could say _castle_ but I can’t see how I could get my hands on one in the foreseeable future. So, let’s say you’ll always have a place with me, or any of my brothers, wherever we might dwell. Did you hear me?”

“We did,” Erenis said, “and thank you kindly.”

“You have always been good to us, Uncle,” said Tyelperinquar with the ghost of a sad smile on his face. “And overly generous. Forgive me if I have offended you.”

“It’s worse, Tyelpë,” Carnistir said. “At times, you’re scaring me.”

But he grinned right afterwards, and took the hand Tyelperinquar offered to him; and they all fell to the pretence of piece and accordance.

 _We should call it a truce,_ Erenis thought.

~ § ~

The three Feanoreans took their luncheon with Gwindor and the guards; their conversation rambled on to lighter topics then, and – from time to time – even to those of interest. Carnistir told them about all the strange news and rumours he’d heard in Ossiriand, Belegost and what remained of Thargelion; then he sang them a song he’d written about a dwarf merchant who challenged everyone to played the dice with him, and repeatedly drank so much that he fell straight upon the table, face down his mug. The song met great success among the guards, and not even Tyelperinquar managed to hide his grin.

“You still have to tell us about your _friendly banter_ with Orcs, Uncle, as you so eloquently put it,” Erenis reminded Carnistir when the remnants of their food were carried away and she filled everyone’s cups with watered wine.

“Oh yes, I suppose,” Carnistir grinned. “Unfortunately, the story isn’t quite as heroic as it could have been.” He delved into his pocket, and pulled out a small parcel. “I’ve gone to great lengths to get this for your begetting day, young lady, but alas! Bad fortune pursued me, for I’ve been robbed on my route: my heart was stolen.”

Erenis (who had never received a begetting day gift with such open directness before, without any needless blessings or compliments) could not hide her grin, nor her utter delight when she unpacked the delicately wrought brooch from wet, mottled paper. It was of Dwarwish making without any doubt: but curiously enough, its silvery outlines formed an eagle.

“It is magnificent,” she breathed, and leaned forward to kiss her uncle on the cheek. “Thank you! But you have to tell me - who stole your heart on the road? And why should that mean bad fortune?! I’m so glad for you, Uncle!”

“Aye, we should drink to that!” Gwindor suggested with his usual heartiness.

“Help yourselves,” Carnistir laughed, “yet the thief wasn’t the sort of creature you might expect. If you keep your voices down and don’t jump on her all at once, you may see her.”

With that, he stood up slowly, gritting his teeth when his bandaged hand reached an uncomfortable angle, and went to his horse. Erenis glimpsed that the large saddlebag on the stallion’s side was half open, as if to let the air enter; and when Carnistir pulled out his hand from the bag, he was holding a small, black bundle. As he came to settle back in their circle, Erenis saw that the bundle was, in truth, a little pup, its fur black as night.

“Oh,” said Gwindor in a tone that did not quite match the Captain of Nargothrond. “She’s so tiny!”

“She also has teeth like steel,” Carnistir said happily. “We met on a cold night, not entirely a day ago. I stayed far from the road to look for a swift way up here, and that was when I saw a fire, and fifteen Orcs around it. They were about to _cook and eat_ this tiny helpless creature. One of them held her by the neck. I saw that from amongst the thicket, and… well, Lord Gwindor, you don’t yet know me when something gets on my nerves. Long story short, I suddenly felt slightly upset and I might have accidentally massacred those filthy Orcs. At first, I just wanted to throw them into their own boiling cauldron but I didn’t quite get to that. Orc-necks break so easily… And then there was this little lady, yowling and scratching about, helpless and frantic with fear. So I took her. What else could I have done?”

 _“Nothing!”_ Said Gwindor in unison with three guards.

“Wait,” said Tyelperinquar, fingers drumming a steady _staccato_ on his knees. “Uncle Carnistir. You threw yourself alone, without any entourage or hope for help, at the middle of an Orc camp… to save a puppy?”

“At that moment,” said Carnistir measuredly, “it seemed perfectly reasonable.”

“I would have done the same thing,” Gwindor declared grimly. Tyelperinquar shook his head.

“That’s… I cannot decide if that’s beyond honourable or beyond stupid.”

“Children and animals are the worst,” Carnistir sighed. “And maybe women. Or any other being that is suffering, really. You just see it and can’t look away. You must… do something immediately. I fell to that trap, as so many times before – the Orcs were surprised enough, but they left an ugly scar on my side -, and now I have my little lady friend to take care of. I still think it was worth it, though.”

“Does she have a name already?” Erenis scratched a tiny ear with her fingertips, smiling as the pup leaned into her touch.

“I’ve been seriously considering _Melko,”_ Carnistir grinned, “but I figured that I could not risk your old Uncle Nelyo throwing me out of his halls. Moreover, I noticed she was a girl.”

“Oh, come on!” Erenis tried to appear outraged, but could barely hold back her laughter. Carnistir had a strange talent for making insults and otherwise horrible things seem chokingly funny.

“Nobody deserves to be called Melko,” said Tyelperinquar. The way the joke appeared to be of no effect on him sent a chill creeping down Erenis’s spine, and once again she was filled with the fear of her brother becoming this cold and distant for eternity. But as so often those days, her fear was momentary; and – as if to reassure her – some faint reflection of their former light returned to her brother’s eyes as he said, “I would name her Egnor, for the sake of her rescue and sharp teeth. Consider that, if it is to your liking.”

“She deserves a finer language,” Carnistir commented, “but I admit I like the idea.”

~ § ~

Hours went by in silence and stillness, and the two siblings tended to their uncle’s wounds as much as they could. The cuts were not deep but ugly, and their edges a little bit blackened, which left Erenis worrying. Yet Carnistir had no fever, he found joy in drink and food, and talked just as much as usual. Erenis stayed around him until nightfall, more for the sake of his booming voice and the sight of his face than the actual content of his endless chattering. Her uncle might have guessed that filling the stubborn silence that lingered around the grove gave her comfort; yet suddenly, when the fiery red plate of the sun almost settled below the horizon, he said,

“Well, I suppose this is farewell, then.”

The statement was abrupt and decisive; it sent an invisible wave of uncertainness around their dwelling that seemed to shake even Tyelperinquar who was tending to some ropes that held a tent.

“It must be,” he said slowly. “That will be better for everyone.”

Their uncle nodded slowly, gravely.

“I understand. Yes, I think I am starting to understand you two. Take care of yourselves… and if you’re this determined to trade your family for the people of Nargothrond, stick with them at least. They are decent, as it seems to me.”

“We’re not trading you, Uncle,” Erenis promised. “Never _you!”_

“Favouritism is an unholy thing, young lady,” Carnistir raised his finger, and winked. Erenis was suddenly strongly reminded of her Uncle Nelyo’s measured old counsellor, and couldn’t suppress a grin. “I’m flattered, though.”

“I am… _we are_ very thankful that you came, Uncle Moryo,” said Tyelprinquar, and spread his cloak upon Erenis’s shoulders before she could resist. The evening chill was getting sharper.

“I will come whenever you need me, provided that I have still legs to walk upon,” Carnistir said lightly. “Though I’m afraid you’ll soon be obliged to reach out to Himlad if you want to hear from me.”

“We will take that risk,” Tyelperinquar said. “May the Blessings of the Valar stay with you on your road north!”

Carnistir nodded.

“Now that would be a sight to see,” he murmured, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his voice was clearly audible all around the camp. “The Valar’s Blessings upon me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> \- Egnor [Sindarin] means approximately “fire-thorn”.
> 
> \- On the usage of names: Erenis’s POV will always use Quenya names for her close relatives and Sindarin for her friends and/or acquaintances, as well as locations.


	15. A Practical Arrangement

_“Am I asking for the moon? Is it really so implausible?”  
/ Sting /_

* * *

 

**Gate I. of Cleanwater Alley in the Hidden City of Ondolindë, FA 467, the ides of Víressë**

It was the sharp whistle coming from the kettle that shook Anardil from his reverie. For a few seconds, he could only blink and wonder if the sound meant that the whole house was on fire, and about to collapse onto his head; but nothing of the sort happened. The kettle merely went on whistling, and began to shake, ever so slightly, as if it was trying to get away from the heat of his furnace. Of course. He must have forgot about it – again – and fallen back to sleep.

Anardil watched it jolting for a few seconds, silently appreciating the mere fact that he once again owned a furnace and a kettle. At times, the sudden turn of his luck felt somewhat overwhelming.

Slowly, he sat up, a stormy sea of soft, clean blankets extruding around his waist, still far too thin to match the strong build of his shoulders. He flexed his fingers, traced the outlines of fading scars where Sauron’s shackles had clawed on his skin, and observed that they were no longer ravaging his wrists. Around him was a light, spacious room that opened out to a small terrace. It faced the snowy Echoriath and the green-green meadows of Tumladen, several hundred feet above its sea of grass. Below him was a soft mattress, caressing his gratefully stretching back. His hands, feet and hair were warm and clean and they smelled of soap, safety and a good night’s sleep.

Anardil climbed out of the bed and took the still protesting kettle, pouring himself a cup of tea. It was a concoction of dense, sweet-smelling camomile: the cheapest he could find in the Lesser Market. He knew from hearsay already that the City had another market, one that was as big as the King’s Gardens; but he knew he would need a companion to wander that far from his new home, lest he’d get lost.

That was the only thing he lacked indeed: a companion. The King had fulfilled his promise and gave him a small house to dwell in, with a garden and large windows opening out to a breath-taking landscape; he filled his rooms with fine furniture, pillows and sheets, robes and shoes and trousers and everything he could need for house-keeping (even a couple of lanterns included), and he also found a bag of coins on the dining table when he’d first entered the house; yet no one, not even King Turukáno had the power to give him company. Anardil knew the latter was something he was supposed to find on his own, yet he did not have the slightest idea how to start. Owning the first house in the street meant that he had but one neighbour; moreover, the next house seemed empty, which cut him off from the easiest and most evident practice of befriending the person who lived closest to him. Then again, Anardil could not be sure if anyone from around there would be willing to befriend him at all. The Way of Running Waters ran not entirely two corners away from his dwelling: almost all the folk who lived there belonged to the House of the Fountain, and Anardil had not forgotten the way Lord Ecthelion treated him at the Council. When an opinion or belief was well and truly stuck in such a leader’s head, the same prejudices could swiftly extend to his household just as well as his circle of friends: Anardil had learned that lesson long ago, in fair Tirion.

Yet the thing he missed the most from his life was definitely Voronwë. In the past days, he had gone to great lengths to be able at least to thank him for his unexpected request on the King’s judgement. When he finally succeeded, the tears that filled his eyes upon seeing the stern Elf were perhaps more honest and real than any emotion he’d ever expressed to anyone; yet Voronwë remained collected, courteous, and cold as an iceberg. He assured him that he’d acted out of mere nostalgia for the sake of times they’d spent together, although he wouldn’t wish to indulge in Anardil’s friendship or company any more. This decision may have had to do something with the fact that since he refused to open the door for him all day, Anardil had climbed down his roof a few minutes past midnight, sliding through his open window…

Anardil was sure he would appreciate if he had a friend _this_ dedicated to him. Then again, the Ñoldor were the most bizarre creatures he had ever met.

~ § ~

The Sun was already high in the skies, and Anardil concluded that the day was too beautiful to waste with lying idly inside. Once it was sufficiently cooled, he refilled his kettle with water instead of tea, and stepped out into the garden to observe the state of spice and vegetable seedlings he’d planted a few days ago. He wanted to grow them on his own.

Anor’s glow was so warm he did not even feel the need to dress; he had no more than a thin white sheet wrapped around his waist to cover his nakedness. At one point, he even considered to drop that, but the scars around his thighs were still swollen and ugly, and he did not want to see them. He watered his plants instead, humming softly to himself; then, seeing that one lavender was growing very promising fresh leaves in a sunny corner, he burst into a song out of joy.

_Now there, now there,_   
_now there, good friend_   
_why would you smile so bright?_   
_Why would your laughter_   
_fill my dark halls_   
_at such an early hour?_

_The moon is gone_   
_the stars asleep_   
_not even Anor shines_   
_Why would you be_   
_so happy now_   
_at the silent dead of night?_

_Thus spoke to me_   
_the landlord’s son_   
_upon the midnight hour_   
_when I was dancing_   
_all around_   
_new hope shy in my heart_

_Good landlord’s son,_   
_where I begin?_   
_\- I laughed as if I’d burst_   
_Have you ‘ver heard_   
_water running_   
_when you were mad with thirst?_

_Such things I feel_   
_wildly, I reel_   
_for my dear wish came true:_   
_in Anor’s light_   
_I gently bathe_   
_with my Lady to woo;_

_Her heart I took_   
_my lute I plucked_   
_or the other way a-round?_   
_I cannot say;_   
_I’ll tell you true -_   
_By honour I am bound!_

Anardil shook the last drops of water out of the kettle, running his fingers idly over the leaves of a rosebush – and was quite taken aback when brushing the leaves aside, he found himself staring into a curious face. As they eyed each other, the intruder gave a low cry, and made a frantic move, as if to cover himself with the same twigs Anardil was holding aside with his free hand.

“Spying on people is a wise thing, if you ask me,” the Teler said cheerfully, once he’d overcome his general bewilderment. “For instance, if they don’t know you’re watching them, they might show their true colours. As it happens, I am exactly what I now must seem to you – a bad-mannered idiot who makes up songs on the spot and talks to his plants. Otherwise, I am quite harmless, I promise you. Fancy a cup of tea? …or a piece of bread and jam, perhaps? They’re from yesterday, but the bread is still soft.”

The intruder swallowed nervously, though it was not hard to notice that his eyes gleamed with low-key amusement.

“I am…,” he managed. “I am very sorry.”

“Good morn, Very Sorry,” the Teler nodded ceremonially, and extended his hand. “I am Anardil.” Before he could savour his joke, though, a sudden realisation dawned on him. “Hey, I know you, don’t I? I saw you in the Council – you’re the King’s scribe with those marvellously swift hands!”

“It might have been someone else you saw, Lord Anardil,” said the Elf. His voice suddenly seemed much more confident, though a tinge of pink crept up his neck to reach his cheeks. “King Turukáno has many scribes.”

“You cannot fool me,” Anardil declared. “I remember you fully well. What a fortunate meeting! Now come on, climb out of those bushes and break your fast with me! You must wait, of course, until I change my flaunting stage of undress.”

To his great delight, the intruder followed him after a few moments of hesitation, and Anardil could have sung and danced around out of sheer joy. He was finally about to have _company!_

Rushing back into the house, he dressed, he filled his kettle for the third time that day, then he loaded the table with two loaves of bread, rich, yellow butter, vegetables and fruits, honey, several jars of jam and spices, salt and sugar, and even a bowl of cold stew. Now that his purse was heavy, having a guest was a thousand times worth emptying his pantry.

“There is no way I could be worthy of your hospitality, my lord,” the Elf protested, but suddenly, his eyes went wide. “…by the Valar – is that blueberry jam? It’s very rare and precious this far up in the mountains…”

“It’s my favourite,” Anardil said cheerfully. “I mentioned it to the King, just in case he has a good memory, you know. Come, share it with me!”

“You honour me, my lord,” said the Elf smoothly. “It would be horrendously rude of me to turn down such a kind offer.”

“Indeed,” Anardil gave a grave nod, and held out the jar with a flourish. “I would be deeply wounded.”

That earned him a startled, ringing laugh: its sound was fresh and pleasant.

“You are one curious elf,” his guest admitted.

“True enough,” Anardil nodded, and proceeded to fill a bowl with salad. “I am _curious,_ in the sense that my eyes and ears (and sometimes hands) wander everywhere they should not. Then, usually, they get burned, but the whole process is terribly amusing.” Unabashedly, he winked. “But to your well-mannered Noldo eyes, I may also seem a little… well, odd. And just a tiny bit mad.”

“Considering all meanings of the word _curious,_ I find that they all have a chance to prove appropriate,” said his guest, the mazy words of Quenya springing fair and free from his lips. “But I do not think you’re mad. You’re just… well, different. But that is a good thing. I can’t imagine Lord Ecthelion, for one, offering me such a splendid meal if he caught me eavesdropping through his fence.”

“So you admit you were eavesdropping,” Anardil grinned. “I like that.”

“What choice do I have?” The Elf took a measured bite of his bread-and-jam, an expression of utter contentment rushing through his face. “It is the truth. I _was_ eavesdropping, because I cared to hear the song that woke me from my best dreams – and having found out who the singer was, I took my chance. For I _am_ curious about you, Lord Anardil of the Falmari; curious as a scribe, a historian and a collector of tellings and tales.”

 _Surely, your sweet tooth has nothing to do with it,_ Anardil thought, but all he said was,

“Do you have another name then _Very Sorry?”_

That earned him another soft laugh.

“I am called Pengolodh,” the Elf fell silent for a few seconds, as if waiting for some kind of recognition, then – as he earned none – he pressed on, “and I am told to be a lore-master, yet I do not claim that name _._ I have collected, noted and tidied the history of Ondolindë in the last few decades. I wrote the lay of our coming here, and various others of battles and other remarkable events. You could say that I am the King’s chronicler… one who likes to pick up the role of a scribe from time to time. You see, the last council meeting seemed very promising to me. Grave news arrived to the City and I was almost certain that something interesting would happen.” Pengolodh made a vague gesture with his butter-coated knife. “Something that would be worth writing down. And I am so glad I’ve attended the Great Council in person – seldom do I have an opportunity to witness such a heated debate! And then there were you, Lord Anardil – the highlight of the whole session! You made my afternoon amusing, and for that, I am forever grateful. If you only knew the rarity of eventful meetings…” Absentmindedly, he shook his head and his voice trailed off.

“You, like many others, seem to remain under the false belief that I am some kind of wayward lord,” Anardil could not help but grin. “And that is flattering, really. I could live with that reputation. But King Turukáno made me quite clear what he thought of lying and deceiving people… and from now on, I share his views. I must tell you the truth, Lore-master, as it is: I’ve made an honest confession at the Council. I am no lord, and never was. I’m a simple, lowly Elf from Tirion or Alqualondë, as you please – well-travelled for sure, experienced, perhaps a little bit eccentric and in certain things, doubtlessly precocious; but a simple Elf nonetheless.”

“But that is _exactly_ what I’m talking about!” Pengolodh clapped his hands excitedly. “Yours is a unique perspective, one I’ve never researched, one I’ve only dreamed to work with! Your perception and understanding of events shall be new to me as much as to anyone who may later read my accounts. You are a historian’s dream, Anardil of the Falmari, rushing into our quiet city like a wave of storm, shaking us all from our winter sleep. The King granted you a great privilege with the treatment you received, and now everyone, _everyone_ is talking about you in the City! Everyone is wandering who you are, where you came from, what your intentions are… some even claim you are a wizard, who possesses Fëanáro’s talent of speaking and deceiving.”

“…so you came here, determined to get my story out of me before anyone else does,” Anardil laughed. “Smart!”

“I would have tried to if I had any idea where to find you,” Pengolodh shook his head. “The King was very secretive about that; it is true, though, that rumours are already starting to spread through the streets about your location. But if you care to know the entire truth, we happen to be neighbours. I’ve spent the last few weeks with a friend of mine, discussing his new research and I came home yestereve – or maybe I should rather call it _this morning,_ for it almost dawned. I know that ‘tis almost midday, but I was weary and my mind needed rest; thus, it was your song that woke me.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” said Anardil. “I was fairly certain that no one lived in the next house! So… my neighbour is a historian. That’s…unexpected; and I must confess, you’re not how I imagined such a lore-master.”

“You were convinced we were all sour, collected, dry dunderheads,” Pengolodh nodded. “A common mistake.”

“I shall know better from now on,” Anardil promised. “Now listen to me, lord – I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

“And that of which sort?”

“You need a story, right?” Anardil asked, his voice as innocent as it could get. “And I, _I_ need someone who shows me around here, providing me company and some sort of amusement. We could call it a trade – stories for evenings out. Since you’re a master of lore, you can surely teach me how to behave myself. I, on return, can teach you as many bawdy songs as you’d like. I can tell you of my adventures and you may put them through hammer and anvil, exaggerate them, arrange them into a heroic lay for all I care, you just… you just don’t let me drown in boredom, right? Will you accept that?”

There was a moment of silence.

“That seems like a fair deal,” Pengolodh nodded with a small, satisfied smile, and extended his hand. Anardil reached out to clasp it, then hesitated.

“One last thing,” he said. “Of my story… you must respect that I’m not quite ready to talk about the Sauron-part yet. Which is… being imprisoned and all. It still perturbs me a little bit.”

“I hear you,” said Pengolodh. “We shall proceed with such speed you deem comfortable. I shall never push you.”

“Thanks,” Anardil smiled earnestly, and squeezed the hand that was offered to him. “That means more to me than you might imagine.”

~ § ~

The next few days passed in a rush, and the two neighbours’ new routine was swiftly and effortlessly established. Anardil woke each day at Anor’s first light, prepared himself a tea, took care of his beloved plants, took a short walk in the nearby streets (sometimes, he made it as far as the Lesser Market where he gathered a few things for his pantry). Near midday, Pengolodh knocked on his door and they broke their fast together, exchanging news and the newest bunch of rumours that spread through the King’s Palace. Pengolodh was the source of all the nonsense, insisting that Anardil should be well-versed in such matters if he ever wanted to become involved with the court; and the Teler did not protest, since some of the stories made him shed tears of laughter.

After their meal, they settled down in Pengolodh’s spacious study, and Anardil spoke of his adventures. Pengolodh was adamant about maintaining chronological order, so his first days were spent with vast and rambling accounts on his childhood. Yet no matter how detailed Pengolodh’s questions were, no matter how livingly Anardil remembered his journeys on stormy seas, his adventures at distant lands, his neat escapes, his many losses and few gains, he ran out of stories far sooner than he would have liked.

Then came a night they passed in Pengolodh’s study, sinking in soft cushions and sipping wine, when Anardil recounted the story of his capture and imprisonment in such detail he’d never done before. By the end, he was shaking with anguish and tears of shock, and Pengolodh had gave up scribbling. He sat tight next to him instead, and held his shoulder in such a vice-like grasp it almost hurt; and unwillingly, unconsciously, Anardil accepted his comfort.

There was a curious change to their companionship after that day; they spoke no more of their agreement, and merely wandered the streets of Ondolindë together instead; and Anardil spent long evenings in his neighbour’s study, watching him work through some historic or linguistic delving. Later still, he accidentally discovered that Pengolodh wrote poetry from time to time, and offered to turn some of those into songs.

The moon went full, then new again; and unexpected, uncalled-for, unnoticed for long by their own selves, the neighbours became friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On plagiarism: ‘Practical Arrangement’ (as the source of the chapter title and starting quote) is one of my favourite Sting songs. I find it deeply plausible and true, not only for those who seek romantic feelings, but friendship as well. Friendship perhaps even more.
> 
> On story-building: Chapter 16 will be a direct continuation of this instalment. Also, the story has now entirely passed its ‘setup’ phase: by now, you have encountered each of the central characters (Pengolodh being the last in line), you know their situation and their motivations, so – finally – it is time to move on and set things in motion. I hope to publish the next chapter relatively soon, but I can’t promise anything.
> 
> On Anardil’s song: If you manage to find out where I’ve “stolen” its rhythm from, you’re one smart fellow, and you’re allowed a good laugh.
> 
> On Pengolodh: I insist on my theory that he is not a dry historian, just an eccentric bibliophile of high intellect, an innocent sense of humour and a knack for storytelling. And he’s relatively young. I admit that I really like my take on him, but I admit as well that I’d very much like to know what you’ve thought.
> 
> Special Thanks for everyone who commented on, liked, followed, bookmarked this story or promoted it any other way. I'm sorry to see that almost all of my readers from this site have moved on; but I sincerely hope that if one day you have a glimpse back on this story, even if you have no time to leave a note, you'll have a good time reading.


	16. He Who Walks In Starlight

 

 _"If we shadows have offended,_  
_Know but this and all is mended._  
_That you have but slumbered here,_  
_While these visions did appear,_  
_And this weak and idle theme,_  
_No more yielding, but a dream."_

_/ W. Shakespeare /_

* * *

**XVI. He Who Walks In Starlight**

"What on Arda was that about looking _decent?"_ Anardil inquired.

They were standing side by side in a dark, empty alley, amidst faint notes of music and laughter rolling down from the nearby inn to where they waited. Anardil was wearing a long, blue-and-silver robe, the most festive one he could find in his wardrobe. His unruly tresses were tamed with a hairclip as well, and he wore a pair of new boots. They made him feel almost like a true lord.

"I wanted to make sure you seemed like a normal person this evening," Pengolodh said nonchalantly. "We're going somewhere new and you shall meet _people_ there – some of them important. Provided that you want to make a good impression, it will not hurt if you look fine, speak well, and in general, behave."

"And am I good-looking?"

"Well, your robe certainly is."

"You have too much salt in your body," Anardil countered with a grin. "It's dangerous, you know. Makes your heart race."

They both burst out laughing.

"Where are we going, by the way?" Anardil glanced at his companion. "To the King's Palace?"

"The place is called The Blind Guardian," said Pengolodh, "and it is something you would perhaps call a tavern. It looks like a tavern, it feels like a tavern, it smells like a tavern; yet in the deeper sense of the term, 'tis nothing like that. It is… well, it is a place of importance, a place of renown. When two lords come to an agreement, it oft happens at The Blind Guardian. If a young musician wants to try his luck, he goes to The Blind Guardian. If a bunch of historians and other madmen want to spend a night out together, they visit The Blind Guardian… and if you want to buy or arrange something in secret, the Blind Guardian is the place to go as well. Everyone heard of it, and still, no one ever gets caught. 'Tis like a legend: some believe it, some not, but we, scholars know the truth behind."

"You can always surprise me," Anardil grinned. "And what unholy thing shall we do in that tavern-that's-no-tavern this evening?"

"Nothing unholy, mind you," said Pengolodh elegantly. "I shall introduce you to some people you'd might care to meet. They are my friends, and I hope they will be yours as well. Also, I confess I shall boast a little about how I gained your good will and utter trust in one single day. I ask you to assist and cooperate. Agreement is, let's say, a bottle of wine every two hours, and you get to choose."

"Consider it done," said Anardil with an easy laugh.

"Good. Now let us go!"

They rushed through the lower parts of the city, and headed almost straight to the King's Palace. Not far from its guarded gates, however, they turned left to the Road of Arches, and climbed a set of steep, ivy-mantled stairs at its narrowing end. There opened before them the bushy green park that covered the Square of the Folkwell. Indeed, one who wandered close enough to the centre of the park could clearly hear the chatter of a fresh spring; and as Anardil approached in awe, he glimpsed the light of Ithil glimmering on a thin stream of water, running carelessly downhill. Once the water reached the cobblestones, though, it was immediately led off by small, clever marble ducts and pipes.

"A forest within the City," Anardil whispered. "Marvellous! This place has everything indeed; everything save the Sea."

"Save the Sea," Pengolodh echoed. "Would that I could see it again! But come now; The Guardian is on the other side, and I thought you'd like a walk through the verdure."

They slid through the park arm in arm, paying little heed to the heads that turned after Anardil as he walked. The Teler knew already that the gesture of holding a companion's arm, which had been considered highly intimate in the old days of Tirion and Alqualondë, was perfectly common in Ondolindë; in fact, it was highly recommended to stay in physical touch with the one you were walking with, lest you be buffeted by the crowd in the streets.

A wide path led through the park, illuminated on two sides by colourful lanterns that hung from the trees: some blue, some red, some orange, some green; some golden, some silver; some pink, some purple; and the array of hues went on and on, endlessly. Anardil doubted he'd seen each of those colours before.

"Painted glass?" He looked at his companion.

"They are," Pengolodh nodded, somewhat offended. "Although many who have walked this road with me thought they were flameless lamps."

"Anyone who saw the Kinslayer's handiwork before would only laugh at that," Anardil declared with bitter admiration, and turned away from the lamps.

"When did you…" Pengolodh's sudden halt resulted in an uncomfortable pull in his shoulder. "You did not speak of that when you told me your story!"

"I told you of the time when I was assistant in a stage-house in Tirion, did I not?"

"You did, but…"

"They had one of those Feanorean lamps," Anardil said in a low voice. "The small kind. It worked marvellously. It had such a vivid light… I would oft sit around it late at night, just for the sake of watching. There was nothing burning inside, but _something_ moved beneath the surface. As if the lamp was alive. It was small and precious; I could have pouched it in my pocked if I dared, but it was likely worth more than the whole stage-house itself, so I did not want to risk that."

"The King gave orders not so long ago to recreate those lamps for mine workers, as I have heard," said Pengolodh. "And our good Counsellor Lómion succeeded, or at least he made similar lamps. Their light is white, though."

"I thought he was a lore-master," Anardil raised his brows.

"Was Prince Fëanáro not a lore-master as well? And a fearsome fighter, a poet – and the veriest fool?"

"You have a point, but…," Anardil closed his mouth immediately as they reached the entrance of the tavern (that was no tavern). The oaken doors were wide open, with a pair of luxurious red curtains tied loosely to the sides in an inviting gesture. Looking up, Anardil glimpsed a large signal on the façade, gleaming bright silver in the embrace of low tree-branches. It read, in archaic Quenya,

HERE STANDS THE INN TO THE BLIND GUARDIAN  
FOR TIRED HEROES-TO-BE TO SIT AND WAIT  
UNTIL THE NIGHT PASSES

"… _tenn'auta i lómë,"_ Anardil read with an effort, furrowing his brows. The words tasted foreign on his tongue. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It is an allusion to the Lay of Arinion the Great," Pengolodh said. "I do not think you have ever heard about it – a friend and myself have picked it up from the Dark Elves, a long time ago; and in our youthful arrogance, we'd re-worked it a bit so it would suit our traditions better. Somehow, the story was entirely forgotten through the years, and nothing more than our voice and quills carried it to this city. It was my friend's suggestion to name the inn after Arinion."

"And what is the lay about?"

"That is a fair question," Pengolodh nodded approvingly. "What is any lay _about?_ Perhaps they all tell us the same thing, perhaps they tell us nothing. Perhaps they are trying to teach lessons, perhaps they were written to woo a lady or scorn a lord. Perhaps they were written as a bedtime story for the author's children and with time, they became a lesson for us all."

"All right, Master of Subtle Secrecy," Anardil rolled his eyes. "How does the story _go_ , then?"

Pengolodh stayed silent for so long, Anardil was beginning to doubt he was about to answer at all. When he finally did, his voice was that of a storyteller.

"Arinion was a prince in the realm of Intyalë. He was young, strong, fair of face and many deemed him wise, yet he was never pleased or satisfied with his own valour: he wanted to be a Hero, and the greatest of that name. It happened thus that he set out and travelled all the known and unknown world. When he had journeyed for seven times seven years, he encountered Manwë Súlimo, King of All Things himself and his brother Námo, Lord of the Sleeping and Passing. Both were in disguise, and Arinion was kind to them, even if their glamour made them seem frail and fragile. He offered them the comfort of his tent, the warmth of his fire and the luxury of his finest food and drink; and in exchange for that, Manwë, King of All Things revealed his face to Arinion, and gave his counsel on how to become a true hero."

" _A Hero has seven faces,_ he said. _He has the face of a lore-master, an adventurer, a warrior, a guardian, counsellor, a lord, and finally, that of a King._ _Thou shalt need to be all those seven things at once, son; then and only then shalt thou become a Hero._ – Thus spoke Manwë, King of All Things, and Arinion thanked him kindly, for genteel was his counsel and wisdom was in his words. Yet Námo, Lord of the Sleeping and Passing spoke up as well, and said: _That is what makes one a Hero indeed. Yet thy wish is to become the greatest of them all; therefore, thy trials to prove thy valour must be all the harder. Hast thou the bravery, the endurance, the humbleness to become_ _a lore-master while thou hast no memory? An adventurer while thou art seasick, and afraid of heights? A warrior whilst thou fear thy own shadow? A guardian while thou art blind? A counsellor while thou art mute? A lord without men to command, and a King without a crown?"_

"And lo! As soon as Námo, Lord of the Sleeping and Passing spoke these words, Arinion lost his memory; and thus began his Seven Sufferings and Tribulations. For each trial, he lost the very ability, the very talent in himself that would have been essential to carry out the task at hand: his voice, his power, his eyesight… Yet his will was strong, his heart good and his soul pure, and he passed all trials. At the end, he became not only the greatest Hero, but the most renowned lore-master, the most seasoned adventurer, the strongest warrior, the keenest guardian, the wisest counsellor, the most graceful lord and the most just King of all times. And the Valar saw that, and rejoiced."

Pengolodh's voice trailed off. They both watched the shadowy figure of the bartender moving back and forth inside the building. A gust of wind played with the curtains and made the door's hinges creak.

"There you have the story in short," Pengolodh spoke up again, hesitantly. "You would want to hear the whole ballad tonight – its story is no work of art, for it has been forming itself for centuries by folk who sang it to others, and other folk who sang it in return; yet the one, more or less crystallized version is heart-warming."

"Why is it always Námo who has to ruin things?" Anardil asked, grinning. "I thought we, Teleri were the only ones who held that fact as some kind of folk tradition. It is unfair, surely, considering that Manwë, King of All Things has another, slightly more problematic brother."

"Lord Námo ruined nothing," Pengolodh raised his brows. "He gave Arinion the Great the very chance to become – well, Arinion the Great."

"He must have been very thankful for that. Especially when he lost his eyesight."

"At the end, he was thankful, and his humbleness earned him his titles and experience. That is the moral of the story."

"I don't like the moral of stories," Anardil crossed his arms. "The very term seems haughty and pretentious to me. Stories have morals only for those who hear them from afar: at the comfortable distance of not being involved. Which, essentially, is nothing less than an insult towards the _real_ heroes in those tales."

That earned him a sharp, lingering look from his companion, but Pengolodh said naught else on the matter. "Come, let us enter," he said instead. "Follow me and be courteous, the way I've taught you."

Having no time to protest, Anardil followed the Noldo's smooth footsteps inside the inn.

~ § ~

The first thing to strike him inside the famed Blind Guardian was the abundance of curtains and hidden corners. The building had no second or third floor as most taverns in Tirion did; it expanded mostly backwards instead, worming its way amongst the verdure like a giant labyrinth. The shadowy, spacious room that had first seemed to be the main piece of the inn was, in truth, only its entrance; at the far end of the room, there stood a small bar with a bored-looking keeper tending to it. Behind his back yawned seven open doors, each of which seemed to lead out to a different looking corridor.

Pengolodh stepped forth, presented a swift bow that seemed far too formal to match the occasion, and said,

"Hail and well met! Tired wanderer as I am, I would much appreciate the hospitality of this house, and perhaps a _Loremaster's Mischief._ As for my friend here – he is a new resident of our City, yet he deserves no less."

Anardil tried very hard not to smile triumphantly upon hearing the term 'friend', but his face betrayed him. The bartender nodded, unmoved, and poured two cups of red wine, so dark and dense that it was almost black.

"Let us drink to the King's health," said Pengolodh casually; he picked up his own cup, and drank the wine in one long swallow. Anardil did likewise, silently appreciating the bouquet; it was thick and almost sticky sweet, and it smelled of fresh grapes and summer. It almost felt like drinking stum.

The bartender then stood aside, and Pengolodh grabbed Anardil's arm - less gently than before -, and led him through thefirstdoor from the left. Anardil found himself in one of the dark corridors he'd glimpsed before, framed by richly carved columns and an abundant forest of wild, capricious decoration; but very soon, the corridor took an abrupt turn and he bumped into a giant bookshelf, overloaded with thick volumes and dust-smelling parchments.

"Careful!" Pengolodh hissed. "Some of those are hundreds of years old!"

"What the…" Anardil tossed a thick pile of linguistic studies back to its place, and looked around in awe. It seemed that they had walked right into an ancient archive; there were bookshelves looming in the dimly lit piece as far as he could see. "Is this... a library?"

"This is the Lore-masters' Lair," Pengolodh said, as if this was the most predictable evidence one's mind could convey. "Lore is found and acknowledged through reading. If it is silence and studies that you seek, this is your place to dwell in The Guardian. But come now! My friends are waiting for us."

Six turns and several dimly lit corridors later, just when the sore wounds on Anardil's thighs were starting to ache, they walked through an open door, into a room that bathed in candle-light. It was a large chamber, slightly similar in build to the one with the bartender, but there were no further rooms opening from it. It was furnitured with large, comfortable armchairs instead, all of which were placed around a wide round table with a merrily burning hearth behind it. Around the table sat five Elves; three of them reading, one of them scribbling, and another one looking up at them as they entered, beckoning them closer with a smile and a wave.

"You are late, Quendo," he said in an amiable, but slightly accusing tone. "I trust you have subterfuge enough to defend yourself?"

"I do indeed," said Pengolodh smoothly. "I came with one worth a story: I have the one you all were seeking. Let me present you, my friends, Anardil himself of the Falmari."

All well-rehearsed gestures of courtesy were forgotten in an instant as Anardil made a realization.

"Your name - Pengolodh!" He said. "How did I never hear it before – it is Sindarin!"

A small creak of disapproval appeared between Pengolodh's brows, but Anardil paid no heed to it.

"It must be a translation, of course," he said. "Which raises the very evident question why did you let me know how your name sounded in my language. Did you want me to understand you better? Did you want me to see you as less of a stranger? Is your name so foreign to you that you prefer to use it in another speech…?" He suddenly realised where he was. "Oh, forgive me, good lords. Please receive my greetings."

"Received!" Said one of the Elves, placing down his large book. "And lo! That is a fair question indeed, that of Master Quendingoldo and his name. I would pretty much like to hear the answer myself."

"Your companion is every bit as crude as the stories describe him," said the previous Elf, grinning. "This level of honesty, however, is nothing if not admirable."

"It has been a long time since anyone called me honest, lord," Anardil said. "Rude, sadly, is a much more common case; but my people has a saying which goes, _there is no smoke without a fire._ There may be a small basis, a tiny chunk of truth to those stories; even if my scandalous level of righteousness is not something I can deliberately change, or even acknowledge."

"Can one ever acknowledge themselves?" said a third voice from the shadows. "What say you to that, Master Anardil?"

Anardil fell silent for a few seconds. He knew when he was tested.

"I say yes," he answered, hesitantly. "Just as much as one may be certain that the sky is blue; even if at times, it is clearly grey or black or even purple. Just as much as one can claim that there is healing and consolation in the Halls of Mandos, even though they never dwelled there. Just as much as one may claim that they do not fear death or blood or shadow or prison when they have never seen them. Only as much as one may hope when hope seems foolish or even a lie. One can think that they acknowledge themselves; for even if our fëar have their limits, the only true way to acknowledgement is thinking. Whether one can acknowledge himself _justly_ is entirely another question."

A strange sort of silence followed his words; and suddenly, Anardil became very much aware of all the clear grey Noldo eyes on him.

"I must be very drunk," he mumbled apologetically, and laughter broke out around him.

"You should drink more, my friend," said one of the Elves, and Anardil's heart fluttered upon being called a friend for the second time that evening. "I wish my ventures in the hazy realm of drunkenness made me spit phrases like that."

"Luckily for all of us, you keep spitting them even without a sip," Pengolodh said. "If you stopped for just half a day, my sweet Ilcorin, they would come again as a surprise."

Laughter rose again, and Anardil sat down in one of the armchairs, facing the burning hearth. Pengolodh settled beside him, and they slipped back to their previously rehearsed roles: that of the boasting scholar and his new, slightly amazed acquaintance. Anardil listened dutifully to the Elves' mazy names, as if he could hope to remember them at first hearing; he recounted his first meeting with Pengolodh (detailedly describing his stage of undress and his utter astonishment when he found a _spy_ in his rose-bushes), then improvised a hymn on Pengolodh's smartness, empathy and the way he honoured him with his friendship. It then fell to Pengolodh to present a revised version of Anardil's story; and the Teler had to admit that it _did_ have a nice ring to it, now that it was all tidied up and written down with nice calligraphy.

And that evening, for the first time in decades, he felt like someone respectable and valuable, surrounded by friends.

~ § ~

"I can't believe I forgot to ask your friends about the Lay of Arinion!" Anardil grieved much-much later as they crossed the park arm in arm, relying on each other to ease the curious swaying of their steps. It almost felt as though they were boarding a ship.

"None of them could have answered that," Pengolodh said measuredly. "The friend I'd collected the story with... she did not pass to greet us today. 'Twas a busy night, of course – she must have been with the innkeeper."

Pengolodh's voice voice trailed off, and for the thousandth time that night, Anardil was left in the dark. The Blind Guardian was home to many curious things, and nothing was, in fact, more curious than those who worked there. All of them wore names like Lómelindë, Parmaitë or Ránasta: names that were tailored and cut like fine clothing: names that fit them, yet were not truly theirs. All servants of the inn were polite, silent and swift as shadows, yet pleasant to have around whenever they appeared. The drinks had strange names, such as 'The Wayward Moon' or 'King's Bane'; and when Anardil tried to make fun of the habit by ordering a 'Bystander's Bollocks', he was offered a cup of dry, white wine that seemed to fit the description quite spectacularly.

Yet the greatest mystery of all appeared to be the innkeeper. Anardil supposed they had to be a very strong, fearsome Elf, for no one, not even Pengolodh spoke their name; and his friend appeared to be slightly blushing whenever the innkeeper was mentioned. It might have been only the wine, though.

Yet now, as they were waddling their way back home, Anardil seemed so grieved by his missed chance that Pengolodh gave in with an exhausted sigh.

"I'd need to read my notes to recall how the lay starts," he said, "yet I know that before each of his Trials and Tribulations started, Arinion had to enter a gate; there were seven gates, just as there were Seven Sufferings. And it was when he entered the fifth gate that he lost his clear, ringing voice that had always been a pleasure to listen to; and alas! this grieved him so, for it was his fifth mission to become the greatest Counsellor the world has ever known. Yet there he was, out in the wilderness with foes around, and he wasn't even able to call out for help."

And softly, Pengolodh sang,

 _On blood-steeped soil he lay,_  
_above him crows sang shrill_  
_and no other sound was heard_  
_atop the lonely hill;_  
_he crawled on hands an' knees_  
_as one crawls on cruel ice_  
_and 're was no gentle breeze_  
_to blow his hair from his eyes._  
_Moved Arinion's mouth:_  
_"All flowers shall wither"_  
_no voice escaped his lungs_  
_and no-one came thither;_  
_"In sorrow it has started,_  
_in sorrow it must end!"_  
_Alas! his strength was gone_  
_his voice, gone with the wind._

 _And the night was passing,_  
_yet another came to loom;_  
_so black, blacker than ink_  
_so black, blacker than doom;_  
_many years would he wonder_  
_many years would he hope_  
_yet he would not find his way!_  
_for the mountains were cold;_  
_for the windy slopes were high_  
_the peaks icy and cold_  
_and he had no voice to shout_  
_his heart empty and cold._

 _And in starlight he walked_  
_draping himself in clouds_  
_in cavern's shade he hid_  
_in breaches he lay down;_  
_and on he wandered still_  
_and on he wandered more_  
_yet to dead end he came:_  
_for the Gates, the Gates were closed -_

"...but Anardil, my dear friend, what ails you?" Pengolodh suddenly exclaimed, staring into the other Elf's shocked, stricken face.

"Oh," said Anardil, "nothing. Nothing, really. It's just – I am slightly surprised, if you care to know."

"You're looking at me as if Lord Námo had his hand around your wrist and you were about to answer his call."

"It is but the ghost of the hand, and the echo of the call," Anardil whispered. "Yet for a moment, I felt as if I was... no, no, forget that. I rarely drink this much, and I sleep rather badly sometimes. I am mixing things up. I am giving too much significance to certain coincidences. It is most intriguing, though..."

" _What?"_ Pengolodh said, losing his patience. "You babble as if you were reciting the choir's lines from some tragedy. Speak your mind!"

"It appears," said Anardil, "that I've been seeing dreams about Arinion. All this time, only about him; and I had no idea! Indeed: it is all clear as day now: the sea, the storm, the shadows, the foes and the crows. It was him! Now this is clearly a sign that is above my means of understanding; yet I shall search for my answers, relentlessly, until I find them."

"You dreamed of Arinion?" Pengolodh's voice was very serious, even though he had to grab hold of a fence in order to set himself straight. "Are you certain?"

"No," said Anardil truthfully. "I am probably too drunk to be certain of anything. We shall speak of these matters on the morrow; nothing more than thinking of those dreams gives me the chills."

"We still have almost _ten minutes_ to go," Pengolodh sighed, as if that meant the end of the world. "And dawn is not far. Will you not tell me _now?"_

"You won't remember anything once you get sober, and I won't bother explaining myself for a second time," Anardil grinned; then he gave a sudden start. "But wait... ten minutes? How is that possible?! You see that tower over there? 'Tis only two corners away from my house. And that other house after the bend in the road opens to the Way of Running Waters. We're very close!"

"No, we're not – we have to go all the way around. There is no path between the buildings before us; these are lorldy quarters here with parks, fountains and street-long arbours."

"Then those lords can all go to the Enemy's seven hells with their fountains and arbours," Anardil declared, once he gave the matter a few moments of consideration. "I'm weary and hungry, and I'm going as the crow flies."

And he shook out his cloak with a flourish, then pulled himself halway up on a gleaming silver fence, his legs searching for hold.

" _What – are – you – doing?!"_ Pengolodh whispered, scandalized.

"Going home. What do you think I'm doing, setting the City on fire?!"

"Those are Lord Ecthelion's gardens!"

"They will serve as a shortcut just as any other. If you intend to fret your legs all around the City in this impossible hour, I'm not standing in your way – but I shall go through here. So are you coming or not?"

"There is no way I would ever do this," Pengolodh said, and he pulled himself up onto the fence beside Anardil. "This is the stupidest thing I have ever seen."

"You did not see much, then, for a historian," the Teler said nonchalantly, and grabbed hold of a nearby tree-branch. He sank his knee into a breach on the top of the fence, balancing his weight between two spikes of shining metal. His feet and knees were both on the other side now.

" _You're drunk!"_ Pengolodh spit out what appeared to be his final argument.

"I'm drunk, you're drunk, the whole world is drunk," Anardil sang, and he chuckled. He had not felt this alive in a very long time.

"Anardil," Pengolodh pleaded. "This counts as trespassing! And a very ridiculous way of trespassing, at that."

"Only if Lord Fancy Helmet catches us," Anardil shrugged, and there was a strange, wild edge to his smile. "And what would such a mighty Elf do outside in his gardens at this hour? All decent people are asleep, my sweet! Yes, of course, you are decent as well, I see it in your eyes; just climb back, then, and go around like all the other sheep! Sweet dreams – we shall speak tomorrow!"

And he swung his legs, then jumped (perhaps a bit less gracefully than intended) – then he waited.

Pengolodh landed beside him a few moments later, muttering phrases that did surely not match any decent person's vocabulary. There were stray tree branchlets stuck in his dark hair, and his robes were dirtied with grass-marks, which considerably diminished his charms as a renowned scholar.

"If I get caught because of you...," he hissed, "I _swear_ I don't know what I'll do with you, but you're going to regret it."

"That sounded very menacing," Anardil gave a chuckle. "I almost wetted my pants."

"Close your mouth and listen to me!" Pengolodh grabbed the sleeve of his robe, and turned him around. "We're about to make a terrible mistake. We should climb back – _now._ "

"You're no fun at all," Anardil complained. "Come on, it's just a minute. We cross the park, we go around the fountains, we climb the fence on the other side, and we're home. You act like we were about to march through the Iron Prison. What is that you're afraid of?"

"I'm not _afraid,"_ Pengolodh said, precisely articulating every word. The drunken haze of the evening was entirely gone from his wide eyes. "It just seems like a bad idea."

"It seems good enough to me," Anardil declared merrily. "It wouldn't hurt to explore these gardens a bit."

"That's what I thought," Pengolodh lamented, but as Anardil hit the narrow path leading into the garden, he was still walking beside him. "You're a hopeless fool, a bad-mannered idiot who somehow always finds his way out of trouble with his charming smile. You know that you do – and you count on that! _You play on the good hearts of people, just because you know you can make them laugh!_ And you just – you just do it and you don't give a damn, how do you do that, really?! Where do you get the courage, the guts, the _cheekiness_ to do whatever the hell you please?! And why am I so envious of that?"

"I don't know," said Anardil happily. "Stars above, look at _that!"_ He strayed off the path to contemplate a fountain, chattering merrily below a circle of slender, flowering cherry trees. It was carved of clean marble, and its top formed the statue of a fierce, heavily armed warrior. "Do you think it depicts the lord of the House? Do you think he'd filled his halls with marble busts of his likeness and made all of them spit gold?"

Pengolodh coughed, a roll of laughter stuck in his throat. "You're still a little cross with him for the way he treated you in the Council, are you not?"

"Me? Cross? Oh no, not at all," said Anardil, and he gave the fountain a last, indecorous look before turning away. "I'm a blessedly good soul, my friend. I'm _never_ cross with people. I'm not even cross with Voronwë for treating me like dirt on his soles. I'm merely curious – well, I want to know why people act the way they do. Yet I think I will never comprehend it. I think I will never know why are you still following me, for one."

"Because you're drunk as a fiddler," said Pengolodh, "and I don't want you to get in trouble. Most likely, of course, I'm throwing myself into the pit as well, but at least that will be a pit for two."

"You're such a wonderful person," Anardil sighed dreamily. "Why are you not married?"

"Don't let the wine make you ask stupid questions," Pengolodh chuckled; and Anardil was too dazed to hear that his voice had an edge to it.

~ § ~

They had encountered no one in the park, nor around the great fountains rippling in the courtyard, nor on the small path as they stole around Lord Ecthelion's house. A horse whinnied at them as they passed along its lair, but Anardil gave it a privy "psst!" and patted its nose. Pengolodh stifled a laugh at the ease his friend walked around the whole domain, just as if it was his.

And just as their minds were starting to clear, just as the specks of dust in the air were beginning to swim in the red beams of the rising sun, just as they glimpsed the great fence on the other side that opened out almost directly to Anardil's own gardens, they heard the low, frantic sounds of a debate before them.

"I have told you a million times," said a heated voice, "that my dreams meant nothing. _Nothing!_ They're simple nightmares – irksome and disturbing for certain, yet nightmares all the same! They shall pass with time. They might have much to do with Findaráto's death – you know how it shook me. I appreciate your concern, but I am all right, or at least, I will be all right relatively soon. And now, if we have nothing else to discuss..."

"No! No, no and a thousand times _no!"_ said another voice Anardil recognised as Lord Ecthelion's. "How dare you say this, _how dare you_ lie both to me and to yourself? You know that this is much more serious than that! You know that you need help – why are you so reluctant to accept it?! Your dreams, Fin, are trying to tell you something! They are signalling something – you said that yourself, the first time you told me about them!You can't go on trying to ignore this any longer; look at yourself, the dark circles beneath your eyes! When was the last time you've had a whole night of deep, undisturbed sleep...?"

"Just yesterday," said Captain Laurefindil of Ondolindë, quite dryly. "I am perfectly fine, thank you; the dreams are getting scarce."

There was a short pause.

"I do not believe you," said Ecthelion. "Do you believe yourself? Because if the answer is _yes,_ your state is worse than I have thought."

"What should I do, then?!" the other voice sighed, depleted. "Knock on the King's door and apologise for no longer attending to my duties, with the pretext of losing sleep? I already hear the whole court murmuring behind my back that I must be courting some lady... or I must be afraid of the dark. I can't do that! Life should go on – I should get over these dreams and live my life, the life we have always known! You worrying over me and exaggerating my problems will not help."

"And do you think it would help if you just... slept here sometimes?" said Lord Ecthelion in a much lower, softer voice. "We could share a goblet or two, speak about whatever you please – then you could just stretch out in my guestroom and perhaps sleep in peace. And if your nightmares come back and I hear you shouting, I'll be there in a split second, and chase their darkness away."

"Honestly, my friend, I'm touched that you would do such a thing for me," said Captain Laurefindil, "but I can't accept it. You have a life, too..."

"You have always been there for me when I really needed it," said Lord Ecthelion sincerely. "I would be honoured to do the same. You – you're like a brother to me."

Anardil would have really liked to swallow a chortle at such a timid confession coming from a fearsome lord, but – to his great dismay – he felt probably as touched as Laurefindil himself. Pengolodh cowered beside him without a sound; by the looks of him, he was determined to pretend he did not even exist.

"Thank you," said Laurefindil after a long silence. "Thank you kindly. And forgive me. I did not mean to treat you so unkindly. I only... I don't understand why my dreams have such an effect on me. I have told you about them all, they're not even truly _frightening_. Yet they exhaust me, they bother me, they never cease to gnaw on my shall I be free of them?"

"As soon as we find out what they mean, my friend," said Lord Ecthelion sternly. "And trust me, we will. Together, we will."

A few moments later, Anardil heard the sound of closing shutters, and when no other noise than the chirping of crickets was to be heard for several minutes, he emerged from the bush he'd been hiding in, and continued his stroll in the lord's gardens as if nothing had happened. Pengolodh soon caught up with him, his eyes never leaving his friend's face, not even when they succesfully climbed through the fence at the other end of the property.

"All right," he finally spoke up when they arrived at Anardil's doorstep. "Are you happy now? We've just witnessed a private conversation, and finally, we wasted much more time than we would have spent if we'd simply walked all the way around."

"I'm not happy," said Anardil,"I'm confused. For a reason I cannot truly determine, my friend, I'm entirely convinced that Captain Laurefindil and I are seeing the exact same dreams. And that – if true – is most unsettling."

"How will you prove that?" Pengolodh raised a thin eyebrow. "He'll never share such private matters with you."

"No, he shall not. But Lord Fancy Helmet here would do anything for his friend, or haven't you heard?" Anardil grinned, sinking back to his strange mood. "So I, as you have promptly guessed yourself, shall _play on the good hearts of people._ And you, my friend, will help me with it this time. After all, my dreams do weigh on my tortured little soul as well. It would be beneficial for both Captain Goldilocks and myself to get the whole matter sorted out, would it not?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes
> 
> On symbolism: "The tavern that is no tavern" is one of the most frequently (and wildly) used symbols in my works in general. Although its whole appeareance and function is very different, I think it might have something to do with my childhood and the milieu I grew up in. (Those who know me a little bit, or chatted with me about the subject are allowed a resignated nod).
> 
> On 'The Blind Guardian': This special tavern has been devised many years ago, when I wrote a series in which I messed up the timeline of Gondolin so much that Elrond and his parents could live there in peace before its destruction happened. The inn wasn't named Blind Guardian (I don't think people called it anything else than 'The Inn'), but it was very similar to this one. I'd like to say that I decided to bring it back, but it didn't happen quite consciously: I've had a dream a couple of months ago, and it came back so vividly that it would have been a sin to leave it out.
> 
> I freely admit that the tavern was named after the famous metal band, and not the Lay of Arinion (which, on the contrary, had always included a blind guardian).
> 
> On 'The Lay of Arinion': The roots of this story are very old. I think I might have wrote the first version of it when I was 12 or something... It takes mostly after the legends of my people, in which Jesus Christ and Apostle Peter are walking our roads in disguise, and trying to mend people's ways (you would be surprised by the amount of sarcasm Jesus expresses in some of these tales). What is even more striking in them is the way the narration mixes up Catholic religion with ancient pagan folk tradition and symbols. I've been trying to implement these elements into a tale which can be sort of a basis to the whole story, which could leave us wandering if stories could come true, if belief was in vain or not... You'll see all that dilemma unravel later, and you may also start wondering what the Lay of Arinion could mean to the characters. (I might be reading slightly too much Russian classics nowadays...)
> 
> On names:
> 
> Quendingoldo is the Quenya version of Pengolodh's name, meaning "teaching sage" / "doctor of lore".  
> Ilcorin is an ancient-structured name, meaning something like "Not of Aman".
> 
> Arinion means "Son of morning" or "Son of dawn".  
> Lómelindë stands for Nightingale [literal: dusk-singer] (male version), Parmaitë stands for "book-handy" and Ránasta means "Lunar month".


	17. Interruptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Message on the 23rd of August 2017
> 
> It’s strange to be back after such a break – it wasn’t nearly as long as I have imagined it could get. These three months, though, were nothing if not eventful.
> 
> To tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling down for a relatively long time, so I wasn’t quite motivated go on publishing this story. Even if I’m writing it ever since, with the same enthusiasm and niggling as before. When I last looked at the stats in May (on Fanfiction.net: thousands of views and 28 comments) I suddenly just felt like everyone – save the few, faithful readers I dearly appreciate – clicked on my work, thought ‘this is sh*t’ and moved on.
> 
> What changed my mind about publishing was, among other things, a ten days long camping and roleplaying event with the Hungarian Tolkien Association, where my works – and in general, my person – were pretty much appreciated. Moreover, the Legend of Arinion (from the last chapter) has been adapted to drama with our small theatre group, and we brought it onstage. To direct such a thing, and to impersonate Mandos in a play you have written and devised yourself… trust me, it gets you in an artistic mood.
> 
> Special thanks to Onach for helping me with the script, and for everyone else who had to bear with my person through the workflow.
> 
> Special thanks to that beer I drank one night at 4 am. In fact, I hate beer, but at that moment it was just perfect, and helped me finish a song for the next evening gathering.
> 
> Special thanks to my fellow Elves of Lindon and our good lord Círdan (and everyone else in the Council).
> 
> …special thanks to the whole association for their love and care. Really.
> 
> And now on to our story!

_“There must have been a moment, at the beginning, were we could have said -- no. But somehow we missed it.”_

/ Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead /

 

**_The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the fifteenth day of Lótessë_ **

“Lord Nelyo,” said Counsellor Tyelcano for the fifth time, “is weary. He has been weary ever since the last time your lordship inquired about him, which was exactly twenty-four and a half minutes ago; and sadly, if you look for him in another twenty-four and a half minutes, I shall probably have to send you away again. Let him rest.”

“It is _important_ ,” repeated Maglor stubbornly, and he crossed his arms with the very same, wide gesture he’d used all those minutes ago. “I must speak with him about a very pressing matter. As I have told you before, it concerns the safety of Himlad and our people.”

“And as _I_ have told you before, Lord Nelyo gave me precise orders that I should tend to all matters of the household this morning, and I should make all urgent decisions in his stead about what we should or should not do. Therefore, it would be best if you sat down, lord, and told me about all those urgent matters so we could take the necessary course of action.”

Tyelcano fell silent for a few seconds, as if measuring what he was about to say, then added, “This is a strange occasion to question my competence in leadership, Lord Makalaurë. If the question is not too forward, may I ask when and how did I earn such mistrust...?”

Maglor collapsed into the armchair facing the great desk in Maedhros’s study. It felt strange - Tyelcano was used to sitting at the other side of the table.

“There is no need to see offense where there is none, Counsellor! There isn’t a soul in this castle who can deny your capability or trustworthiness. If I told you about my intentions, though, you would restrain me from doing anything stupid… and _that_ , on this special occasion, goes against my very plans.”

“…which suggests that you are planning to do something stupid - on purpose,” said Tyelcano. “And you expect the lord to help you with that… Tell me, why are masters of art always drawn to lost causes?”

“They inspire the best songs,” said Maglor, and he smiled; but the smile did not reach his eyes.

Their conversation seemed to clog at this point, but the Counsellor did nothing against it. He proceeded to read another report instead, corrected two grammatical errors with a sigh, then placed the parchment on top of a slowly collapsing tile.

“Nelyo would try to understand me if I told him about my plans,” Maglor pressed. “And maybe, _maybe_ he would approve of them.”

Tyelcano’s quill stopped above the next parchment, stayed there for a moment, then it was placed neatly back in the inkwell.

“I can see two ways to solve our situation, Lord Makalaurë,” he heard himself saying. “One: you sit back in that thrice-damned chair and tell me all about your plans… And two: you turn around and _leave_. I have been reading reports since the third hour of the day and I am at the very end of my patience.”

“If anyone told me that our Counsellor’s patience had an end, I wouldn’t believe them,” Maglor raised his brows in a way that bordered insolence. “But now that I know it has, I would rather not find out what is beyond. All right, I shall stay if you will listen to me; but I want my brother to hear about everything I said. Today.”

“We will make sure of that,” Tyelcano leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

“Good,” Maglor, to the Counsellor’s astonishment, didn’t immediately start speaking. Instead, he looked around the room, picked up a chessboard from a nearby table, and placed it upon the desk, in front of the Counsellor; only then did he take his own place.

“This is Beleriand,” he declared, running his slender fingers along the board. “This is the Himring,” he said then, and placed a white rook at the far edge. “There is Angamando and the Anfauglith.” A black rook and two black pawns around the top-middle. “The scattered Orc forces in Himlad.” One black pawn west, and one south of the Himring. “What remains of the Gap.” A black rook with two black pawns. “And here we are!”

Two white knights and three white pawns were stuffed around the Himring, and Tyelcano was beginning to hope that the conversation would not take the most likely course of purpose.

(Then, of course, it did).

“Even a child can say that we are surrounded,” said Maglor, the outlines of his face hard and sharp in the morning light. “We’re an isle floating idly upon a poisonous sea. The longer we pretend we’re safe, the harder our walls shall crush down. We should clean Beleriand up, starting with our own homeland – starting with Himlad.”

Tyelcano took a deep breath, ready to interrupt, but Maglor raised a finger.

“Yes, Counsellor. I know what any sane person would say: we’re too few, too tired, too weary. Too far from our kinsmen, with no place to return to if we tire ourselves in Orc-hunting at the far south or east. We would need at least another castle to do such a deed: at least another safe haven for our people to return to.”

“One other at the very least,” Tyelcano nodded.

“The very least should be enough, should it not? Well, if you acknowledge the need for it yourself, you might as well approve my intention of retaking the Gap. All I need is the accord of my brother to gather my men and leave.”

There was a swift, almost invisible flash in Maglor’s eyes, as if the weight of his own words made him recoil; but it was no more than a passing impression.

_Valar above… he must have truly meant what he said!_

Tyelcano forced himself to count to ten in his head, lest he’d start screaming or tearing his hair out.

 _“Cundunya,”_ he said, his voice calm as a frozen lake, unaware of his use of the outdated title, “your brother doesn’t have armies stuffed in his pockets. The few soldiers he _does_ have are either exhausted and scarcely armed – as you have mentioned yourself – or constantly out scouting. I fear that you might be asking too much.”

“I don’t need _much,”_ Maglor looked him in the eye. “Our enemies are unprepared, and not fit for a true battle. I think a hundred scouts would suffice... I would gather solely those who were my own followers, and my castle had been their home – my castle, which is now a hothouse for thieving Orcs and other disgusting monsters. Surely, my brother shall grant me the permission to hunt them down.”

Tyelcano shook his head. “Perhaps the Orcs are unprepared for such an assault, yet so are we. You are Lord Nelyo’s eldest brother. You are _valuable_ in our enemies’ eyes; if captured again, you would get them a ransom you cannot imagine, and you would be carried off to Angamando, to suffer a fate that is far worse than death. We cannot risk that! Your last escape was a miracle, and you shan’t be that lucky next time. Sending you – or anyone else – off with a hundred scouts would mean risking a hundred lives to take a castle we cannot man, renovate, or even keep. And you seven, the heirs of Fëanáro, the Sons of the Star should all gather and stay together, here within these walls. Do not scatter your forces to chase dreams! Our household is not that strong, nor that wealthy anymore; yet with all our forces united, our eyes keen, our spirits steeled, we may survive, as we have survived the Battle of Flames and all the horrors that followed.”

Maglor’s face hardened into an expressionless mask.

“Lord Counsellor,” he said slowly, almost menacingly. “I have been captured and tormented by Orcs – in the light of day, during a ride that was supposed to be a routine scouting. My men were killed in front of my own eyes, and I was tossed and turned and kicked and lashed upon the ground like some rag doll, stripped and trampled into the ground with those filthy beasts standing above me, spitting on me, laughing at me. I _shall not_ tolerate the memory of that any longer. It was an insult to my person and title. It was _humiliating_.”

His tone would have made Tyelcano wince if he wasn’t so terribly tired.

 _“Do you hear me, servant of my House?!”_ Maglor spoke with a vehemence that almost invoked his father. “I felt _devastated._ I felt like a helpless child. I, a Lord of the House of Fëanáro and a former High King of the Ñoldor, will not abide such flagrant insults to my dignity! _I will avenge them!_ I will chase the filthy Orc-scum out of their dwellings and I will pull the hair out of their skulls, strand by strand! I will make them taste the lash like they made me! I will make them crawl before my feet and fear my name!” His voice was steadily getting stronger. _“I deserve that much!_ Give me men and let me end this ridiculous retreat we’ve been doing for the past years! We’re still Lords of the West, and Moringotto’s thralls should learn to fear our names again. Where is the Lord Counsellor I have known, the one who wielded both the quill and the sword…? Where is the Hero of the Battle of Flames…?”

“That was Lord Nelyo, I only assisted,” Tyelcano sighed, suddenly overwhelmed by sympathy and a deep sort of understanding. “My lord… my child, listen to me…”

“I am no child, who needs your consolation and pity,” Maglor seethed. “I WANT JUSTICE! DO _YOU_ – OR ARE YOU A COWARD?”

_“JUSTICE?!”_

It seemed that Tyelcano’s patience truly had an end, after all – right there. It felt as though all the blood had run out of his face; the air seemed to grow hot around him, his heart was suddenly racing, and his hands trembled. Still, he schooled himself, tightening his fists, taking several deep breaths and raising his chin. His voice rumbled like a summer storm, and his eyes were ablaze as he spoke.

“If you want _justice_ , my child, go straight to Moringotto’s doorstep, and bid him to kindly hand over your father’s holy Jewels; and tear the Iron Prison down with your own nails and teeth if he does not! Then go and break through the Gates of Mandos, and bring back all the lonely, sorrowful souls who have suffered because of the Enemy’s work, and climb up the Taniquetil with them to appease the Powers! I wish you luck.”

Maglor sprang to his feet, and knocked the chessboard over with a loud _snap_.

“I came here to receive your _counsel,_ not to suffer your arrogance and mockery! Aye, it is justice what I desire, and whatever you may say, I shall have it!”

Tyelcano ignored the hot flames of indignation in the pit of his stomach.

“Justice, as an absolute entity, is non-existent, lordship,” he said with an effort.“The wish for _justice_ was what made Moringotto turn his back on the Valar… and _justice_ is what your father was chasing as well. Behold, what it brought upon all our heads!”

 _“How dare you!”_ Maglor hissed. _“How dare you_ utter Father’s and the Enemy’s name in the same sentence?!”

_“What is the meaning of this?”_

The voice was faint and raspy, but it held enough authority for them both to swallow the rest of their argument and get on their feet.

Maedhros was standing in the doorway, a green cloak pulled tightly around his lean figure. The hemlines of a nightshirt could be seen around his neck, as far down as his collar-bones. Tyelcano could hardly remember the last time he saw his lord in a state this close to _dishevelled;_ it seemed that he’d been shaken from his best dreams, even though the dark circles around his eyes suggested that he’s been awake for at least a few nights in a row. And yet his countenance was still stern and imperious, and the light in his grey eyes bright and lively.

_He is losing sleep again, and here we are, ruining his few precious hours of undisturbed rest._

“Lord Nelyo,” The Counsellor bowed, his voice devoid of all emotion. “I am terribly sorry for this flare-up, and even more ashamed of my rash and ugly words towards your brother. I got… carried away.”

 “What happened?”

“We were engaged in an argument, and I didn’t take his opinion well,” answered Maglor readily, like one who wants to make an impeccable impression. “It was my fault. The Counsellor has been working all night and I didn’t take that into account.” With that, he turned to Tyelcano. “I am sorry, my lord. I was inconsiderate and rude.”

“And most of all, lordship, you were being irresponsible,” the Counsellor sighed. “Thankfully, it is over now – I hope that what was previously a quarrel shall turn to a fruitful clash of views between the pair of you. And now, if my lords shall both excuse me, I must return to my reports.”

“Absolutely not,” said Maedhros sternly. “I shall have no enmity within my walls. We will talk about this matter _now,_ whatever it may be. Sit back.”

“You need rest, lordship,” Tyelcano insisted.

 “Then do not tarry,” Maedhros tilted his head. “That concerns you as well, Kano. I don’t think anyone else than Father has ever managed to make our dearest Counsellor spit flames like that.” When he received no immediate answer, he looked meticulously around the room, noticing the disorder. “People who smash chessboards to my favourite oaken floor are usually people who have things to say. Please, do go on. I am a great listener.”

Tyelcano sat mutely in the lord’s chair for several seconds. His eyes wandered off to Maglor’s face, who seemed to have swallowed his tongue. Next to Maedhros, he was almost like a ghost with his pale skin, his dark robe and those wide grey eyes, now partly hid behind the curtain of his raven hair. His wrath had faded, evanished like puffs of smoke, and to Tyelcano, he suddenly seemed colder than the ever-changing Moon; and Maedhros, though weary and scarred, shone like the Sun itself next to him, burning him… outshining him.

Yet all of this was no more than a passing impression in Tyelcano’s head, a sharp, telling image that stuck in his mind’s eye; and before he could put it into thought or words, Maglor collected himself, straightened his back as he sat, and spoke up,

“I can see now that the Counsellor was right about my plans: they were presented with the wrong words, and consequently, they may have seemed rash, or even flippant. I shall try a different approach. What I want, Nelyo, is solely to…”

There was a loud knack on the door; so assertive, so determined that Maglor swallowed the rest of his sentence, Tyelcano sprang to his feet, and Maedhros said,

“Enter – and pray that you have reason enough to disturb us!”

It was Antalossë, the young scout who answered from the gap of the door, his breath rapid and inordinate, as if he’d been running all the way up from the training fields.

“Lord Warden, Lord Makalaurë, Lord Counsellor,” he jabbered, bowing deeply, “a messenger has arrived from Barad Eithel, and it was so exciting – I mean, my lords, that he was racing as if the Enemy’s fire-spitting demons were in his heels, and he told me –“

“I cannot wait to hear what he told you, my child,” Maedhros interrupted with a small smile, “yet I would like to read the message first.”

“That is not possible, Lord Warden – I mean, there is no written word – ‘tis a private message from the High King.”

A small crease appeared between Maedhros’s brows, his gaze suddenly much more intent.

“Let him in immediately. I cannot wait to hear what my cousin has to say.”

“The messenger is on his way uphill, my lord,” Antalossë bowed once again. “As soon as I saw him, I ran so I could tell you… in fact, the squires always run in the stories to tell their lords about such news, so I took the courage…”

Antalossë made Maedhros smile for the second time in the past ten minutes – _a remarkable achievement,_ Tyelcano thought -, nevertheless, the lord raised his hand to silence him.

“Bring him here, young one, as soon as he enters the gates - and make sure that his horse is well tended, that he’s offered a cup of hospitality and that his accommodations are comfortable. Then come back! I shall be wanting you here.”

~ § ~

The next hour passed in a noisy, vivid blur; they all donned their formal robes and Maedhros locked himself up with the High King’s envoy for what seemed like a very long time. Young Antalossë ran off, then came back, then ran off again when the lord’s favourite stallion stormed out of the stables, determined to tamper with a fresh wagon-load of apples; which caused a monstrous calamity in the courtyard. Not entirely ten minutes later, two scouts arrived in all haste from the west, announcing the arrival of Carnistir Fëanorion, the Lord of Thargelion and “his noble companions” in five days – only to be interrupted by three of their brothers-at-arms coming from the direction of Ossiriand. They brought news of death and havoc, and Orcs lurking in the river-lands. Tyelcano, who knew a lost cause when he saw one, left the whole matter in Maglor’s hands – trying not to think about how it was justifying his cause –, and began devising the most impeccably logical way to house a host of weary soldiers in the Himring (the task seemed almost as daunting as the prospect of returning to his lord’s reports). He was almost done with the count of free rooms and other possible accommodations in the Northern Wing when the door behind him opened, and the royal messenger was sent off to have rest. Maedhros followed him almost immediately, an air of strain and great determination about him.

“Come,” he said in a low voice as he stormed beside the Counsellor. “Walk with me.”

Tyelcano was a tall, strong Elf himself, yet even he had to make effort to keep up with Maedhros’s mile-long strides. The lord was too deep in thought to care, and Tyelcano knew better than to speak, or complain, or to give any reminder of his presence; he simply waited, and made speed.

“What am I going to do now, Counsellor?!” Maedhros suddenly shook his head, his gaze lost in distances he could not fathom.

“I know not, lordship,” Tyelcano said, “but by the look on your face, I daresay it shall be something loud and impetuous.”

“It shall be more stupid than anything else,” Maedhros admitted. “Yet it must be done. There is no other way.”

They descended the old, rickety oaken stairs that led to the back of the courtyard. On any other occasion, Tyelcano would have found solace in the steady, well-known sound of his strides over aging wood, but now he did not seem to have the ears for it; and neither did his lord, for he suddenly halted, then turned around to face him, a cold gleam in his eyes.

“The dreams, Tyelco,” he said without any introduction or explanation, in the most informal speaking mode of their tongue. “Findekáno is seeing them, too. And they’re making him suffer.”

“The dreams,” echoed the Counsellor, not being able to hide the wariness from his eyes. “So that was the message you received. And now you’re wondering whether you should storm down the stables, haul Silmatal out of his box and ride north to save your cousin. As if that would change anything.”

His words had an edge to them, and he regretted them as soon as they left his mouth; yet all they earned him from his lord was a sad smile, and a complete change of subject.

“Makalaurë must have truly angered you. What did he want?”

“To do something rash and dangerous about the Orc-packs around your lands. I will tell you in detail, if that is your command… but please, lordship, find the time to hear your brother’s own explanations as well. I may have been wrong or biased, or it could be only my caution speaking. You’d better be the judge of that than I, or anyone else.”

“Kano wants his castle back,” Maedhros guessed immediately, with a small noise under his breath; too bitter to be a chuckle, too sharp to be a sob. “Don’t think I keep my eyes closed. It was only a matter of time.”

“I must say I am surprised. I… I have rarely seen him speaking with such vehemence. Perhaps never.”

“Everyone would say I am wrong, but I sometimes think Kano is more like Carnistir than anyone else,” Maedhros said, puzzled. “Especially since my rescue. I have always been amazed to see how no one else noticed all the anger and frustration stuffed inside him. He can let some of that out through his songs – ever so sweet, ever so melancholic –, yet the worst of it remains inside, in his heart, and gnaws on him. They’re alike with Carnistir, I say, in everything save the essence… the bile is there: one brother spits, the other swallows.”

“I have never thought about them that way,” Tyelcano admitted, finding his lord’s argument disturbingly well-founded.

The silence stretched between them for a few minutes as they exited the castle and crossed the courtyard. The Counsellor expected his lord to take the right turn towards the stables before he could devise any clever way to hold him back; his chest felt heavy, as if some great, ineluctable doom weighed on it. But Maedhros took the left fork in the road to climb the nearest watchtower and waved the guards off when they greeted them, so they could have their privacy. Finally, they were standing side by side above the lands of Himlad, many-pointed Stars gleaming imperiously below their feet as the wind played with the flags in their holders.

“You were right. I want to haul that horse out of the stables, Counsellor,” Maedhros suddenly said. “I want to storm off to Either Sirion, to an extent you cannot imagine. I wish I could do that – but it is hardly possible. I can see that much. My lands are stuffed with Orcs, my scouts are being hunted and we’re beginning to be surrounded. My people need me here.”

Tyelcano let out the air stuck in his lungs with a soft _‘huh’_.

“Yet I need to answer Findekáno,” Maedhros went on. “And I need to do so in the same way he messaged me – not by written word, because that could be read, because Moringotto’s servants could find a way to break even the cleverest codes one may devise. And yet… and yet I cannot trust any messenger with such information, Counsellor. I cannot… It has to be _me_ who delivers that message, because the safest place it can be guarded is _here,_ inside my own heart, _unspoken._ I shall not trust anyone with it, for the safety of us all. Now, this leads us to a most uncomfortable situation, in which I am needed here and in Eithel Sirion at the same time. However – as we’re both aware –, I cannot split myself in two.”

Tyelcano – for the second time that day – was beginning to hope that the conversation would not take the most likely course of purpose.

(And again, it did).

“If I am truly to depart, I shall need a plan of action to be followed while I am away, to cleanse my lands from all enemies,” Maedhros stated calmly, “by a capable person to execute my orders in the exact way I bid them to. I cannot think of anyone who is better suited to such a task than you, Counsellor. You shall need to be _me_ while I am away. You shall need to be Regent Lord of the Himring.”

“Lordship…,” Tyelcano closed his eyes shut, then counted to ten in his head, silencing his thoughts with merciless, accurate precision. He could not let himself loose his patience _there and then_. It would have meant the end of the world. “Lordship,” he said again. “I am honoured that you would weigh such a responsibility on me… yet it would not work. Your brothers would not listen to me the way they do to you. They… they need _you_ now, to keep them together after everything that happened. And your people as well: they need _you_ to unite them under your flag. If Himlad is to be cleansed, ‘tis you who should lead the hosts and sound the horns, ‘tis _you_ whose name should be praised, not mine!”

Maedhros took a breath to interrupt, but Tyelcano raised his hand.

“Lordship, listen to me, I beg you! If we are to do anything about that stolen Silmaril, you should keep your name impeccable and your title steady. If you rise again as the saviour of the free people and Moringotto’s bitterest enemy, as you did after the Battle of Flames, what sort of light shall it shed upon King Thingol of Doriath that he retains your rightful heritage…? And if you go… what sort of light shall it shed upon you, the Warden of the East, to hide under your cousin’s cloak while your servant is holding the ranks for you…?”

 _“That,”_ said Maedhros in a hard voice, “should very well earn you the same sort of response you’ve received from Makalaurë. I will not have such insolence from you, or anyone else.”

“If that is what it takes to shake you back to your good senses, I am ready to receive any punishment you seem just,” said Tyelcano, gathering the rest of the insolence he could find in himself. “In matters regarding your cousin, my lord, I tend to be more objective than you, and you know that. I understand that you need to answer him, and I understand as well that the prospect of your answer getting known is daunting to you. Yet it would be very unfortunate to risk everything you’ve built here only because pouring your heart out to a messenger is risky and uncomfortable.”

“I care less about comfort than I did about wearing a crown,” there was a flash in Maedhros’s eyes. “What I care about is…” His voice trailed off. Following some instinct, Tyelcano looked down, and he saw that the lord’s hand was gripping the parapet so hard he almost expected to see cracks on the moisty stone.

“What I care about,” said Maedhros again in a raw, shrill voice, “is my dignity. No, perhaps not even that. Yet I cannot suffer… there are still a few things left in this world that I _cannot suffer,_ Tyelco, and one of those would be my men starting to whisper _things_ behind my back. You… if you heard my response to Findekáno, you would understand. I am the Warden of the East, the Enemy of the Enemy, and the holder of all those mad names and titles that hang from me like rotten-ripe apples from a scrogged tree. There are things I cannot permit myself to do – or reveal. Have I been clear?”

Part of Tyelcano’s mind must have been aware that his lord was eyeing him expectantly, yet he said nothing, and did nothing. His hand stopped mid-air, pointing at his chin, and worry lifted from his bows like rainclouds after a spring storm. His path was suddenly clear, laid before his feet; all he needed to do was to step on it, and pray that the Powers would be in his favour.

“Lord Nelyo,” he said slowly, “you said that I needed to be you while you were away, so that your hand and will would reach Barad Eithel as well as Himlad.”

When Maedhros nodded, Tyelcano said, his voice betraying nothing of his inner turmoil and anticipation, “Then, my lord, if you can find it in your heart to trust _me_ with your message, I would happily – and safely – deliver it to the High King, and lead any sort of negotiation you seem fit, so you could stay here and tend to the matters of our homeland. This would be the safest way to execute your plan, and this is what my heart tells me to do.”

Tyelcano knew his suggestion was bold. He suffered through the rapidly changing waves of emotion in his lord’s eyes: elemental surprise, then disbelief, then anger, then suspicion, then excitement, then pain – and then, he felt humbled and bowed his head. When his lord spoke, though, his voice was gentle.

“You hate travelling… with a passion. Do you truly think this would be the wisest way to proceed?”

“There is nothing I hate more than the thought of you – any of you seven, but _especially_ _you,_ lordship - riding around in Beleriand while Moringotto’s henchmen are running free. Against _that,_ what is a bit of rain and a few roots to batter my back while I am asleep…?”

Maedhros took a deep breath. “I hear you.”

Wind rose in the west, and the flags were flapping so rapidly and loudly they almost made out the beat of a battle song. Tyelcano closed his fists as a current of fresh air wormed its way under his cloak, and prayed to Manwë and Varda for his warning to be heeded for once.

“All right,” said Maedhros after a long time. “Though my heart is against it, I shall do as you advise, and put wisdom and caution before my pride. You shall depart on the morrow, and you shall hear the message to deliver on your way, out in the wastelands, where there are no walls and no ears. I shall ride with you for a while, then, to clean my thoughts; for there are other matters we should speak about. Go now, and rest. You will need your strength.”

~ § ~ § ~ § ~


	18. Morning Mist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is dedicated to all the heroes who have been wandering since Chapter VIII. what Maedhros's secret illness might consist of.
> 
> I would like to thank all of you for your feedback, I dearly appreciate it!

 

**XVIII. Morning Mist**

_"All great literature is one of two stories; a man goes on a journey or a stranger comes to town."_

— _Leo Tolstoy_

_~ ~ ~_

"You closed it! _Closed_ – like one would close a hole on a pair of underpants!"

Curufinwë's voice was nothing short of hostile as he trailed along the workshop, chisel in hand; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. There was an unsteady rhythm to his strides, but a rhythm nevertheless; and Tyelcano anchored his mind to the soft _thump-thump_ of his feet that kept the world together.

" _You closed it!"_ The accusation clashed upon the shield of his pride for the third time, as true as it has ever been.

"This is my best hauberk," Tyelcano said gently, "the one that survived the Flames with me. I did not think that I'd have to use it again, and this soon. I didn't want to part from it, so I took a few precautions…"

"You ruined it! You stole into my workshop by night and _r-u-i-n-e-d_ it!" Curufinwë sang. "Look at this, look at the way you've tackled these poor strings of metal…" He shook the hauberk slowly, theatrically, listening to the eerie jingle of its rings. "Hear them scream in pain!"

Tyelcano couldn't hide his smile. Listening to such a distressed lament over rough-and-ready work felt cosy and reassuring in an odd way: it draped a veil of normality over the chaos that seemed determined to settle in his life. He remembered suffering through such growleries from Tirion and Formenos, both by Atar and Atarinke.

"…why didn't you tell me, anyway?!" Curufinwë sighed, proudly and exasperatedly as a minstrel concluding his epic ballad. "Though no longer your lord, I am at least a craftsman in this castle. I could have ended the suffering of your wounded chainmail instead of tormenting it any further!"

"It would have been audacious to wake you in the middle of the night with such a request," Tyelcano said, almost apologetically. "I did not have much time to reflect on the details of my journey; I have to leave in all haste, and my plans of action were consequently reduced."

"What _I_ find audacious is the botching-up of this poor piece of metalwork," Curufinwë crossed his arms. "Your only chance is that you're _leaving_ so I won't have to look at it every day. Now hurry, take it off!"

"Lordship, there's no time…"

"Tsk-tsk," Curufinwë raised his finger, a bit imperiously, a bit mockingly, a bit playfully. "No more lordshipping. Find something dark and destructive, and call me _that."_

"A sledgehammer?" Tyelcano offered. Instead of the snort of laughter he'd been hoping for, the comment earned him no more than a disgruntled noise under the smith's breath. In a better place and a better time, it could have been a chuckle; but this was Beleriand, and the fourth hour of the day, and the Counsellor was soon to leave.

"Take that outrageous thing _off,_ I said," Curufinwë commanded. "You shall have a new one by the time you come back, but I must have your size."

"Don't waste any expensive material on me, lordship," Tyelcano insisted, but he began undoing the clasps all the same. "We are becoming short on metal."

"You're like Nelyo in my eyes, in the sense that if you get a hole in your chest, this whole country will burn down to ashes within a few weeks," Curufinwë stated matter-of-factly. "Get your hands out of my way," he added, and tossed the Counsellor's arms up into the dusty, coal-smelling air. Tyelcano felt a measuring-tape grazing his back like a strayed band of lash. "I won't let you die, Counsellor. You will have a decent armour, _and you will use it."_ Another caress of the measuring-lash. "Left arm up, right arm down 'til midway!" Another. "Good, now switch them!" Curufinwë muttered under his breath, _"…to ruin a perfectly fine hauberk like that… what would Father say?!"_ The measuring-tape crept all the way up Tyelcano's shoulders. "Flex your muscles and raise your arms again!" There was a touch of leather upon his neck, then an uncomfortable shiver ran down his spine. _"Don't move_ and keep your chin up! Thank Manwë you don't have Nelyo's size, how can someone be _so terribly tall_ and have such a thin waist… arms down, Counsellor, we're almost done. Unflex your flexing bits. I'll cover you in metal from head to toes if I have to, but _you won't die."_

"Yours has always been a practical mind," Tyelcano smiled.

"If you want me to precise how profoundly grateful I am for everything you have done to me the past few weeks, you don't need to have any doubt about my sincerity," said Curufinwë calmly. "I truly _am._ You gave me work and a purpose, and the latter… that's something I've been lacking for a long time. It's a nice change. Now raise your chin once again, if you don't want your armour to throttle you!"

"You don't need to be grateful, filthy sledgehammer of Moringotto," said Tyelcano (and this time, Curufinwë _did_ smile), "you only need to get better, and remain sane and useful to Lord Nelyo… and above all, be happier, if you can. That is all I ask from you."

"I will try," Curufinwë said, and his voice was so calm and indifferent that for a second, the Counsellor almost believed that happiness could truly be acquired through simple effort. The smith then grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled a few inconsistent-looking numbers upon it. Tyelcano could not help but watch the process, for he used the same size-listing as his father would use, and under his breath, he also resumed his previous litany about the hauberk, just as Fëanáro would if he were there. If the Counsellor did not know Curufinwë since he'd been a promise in his father's magniloquences, he would have probably taken offense; but he was Tyelcano of Formenos, who knew good smith-work from bad just as well as acceptable from good. He also knew that the corrections he'd made on his hauberk, despite not reaching feanorean standards, were above acceptable; and most importantly, they would serve him well on the road.

And since Curufinwë grudgingly chose his family over his pride and remained in the Himring under Maedhros's protection, he seemed to grow healthier and livelier with every passing day. Housed and well-fed for several weeks now, his face and hands did not look sickly and skeletal anymore; the fiery heat of the smithy coloured his arms and cheeks, and instead of blood, sweat and sour earth, he smelled of oil and coal once again: a familiar scent. His hair was shoulder-length now, its matted ends having been cut and thrown away, and the clothes he wore were clean and soft against his ivory skin. The title of lord he wore no more, but that did not seem to have any effect upon his mood, or upon the imperious, kingly way he moved around the castle; and to the Counsellor, it seemed as though some heavy shadow had lifted from him, and he could once again laugh and play his scoffing japes. The only noticeable change in his behaviour was his absence from council meetings, dinners, routine scoutings and other public events. He spent all his time in the smithy with his new assistants and apprentices, and for the better part of the day, the only remainder of his presence was the thick band of smoke exiting the chimneys. He spoke to no one about his plans and their results, but he seemed to be in great labour, driven by his own insatiable spirit.

"You have to go, Counsellor," he suddenly said, with unexpected gentleness in his voice. "Dawn is coming, and Nelyo awaits. Be sure to taste wine in Eithel Sirion – our cousin has a remarkable collection, as I recall. Provided that it hasn't been eaten by the Flames."

"Let us hope I'll get there in time to taste that wine at the summer celebrations," said Tyelcano smoothly.

"Well, I have made something for you that may help you get there," said the smith. "Here, have it! It's not a remarkable thing, but useful: that much I can promise. It's the sort of weapon I've been dreaming about through all my clueless wanderings in the wilderness. More than a knife but less than a sword, sharp and rough, thin but widening near the hilt, slender but deadly. And it's well-made, within the circumstances. It cuts wood and flesh and bone and Orc-necks, and even the lesser kinds of iron… but I shall be _very_ cross with you if you break it to splinters upon some Dwarwish helm."

"Warning heeded," Tyelcano smiled and reached out to examine the dagger. "This is a generous gift, Curufinwë; one I do not remember having earned. But I thank you for it."

"Once again, you thick-headed Moriquend," the fifth son of Fëanáro said, _"I will not let you die._ Now, shall you try it or not?"

Tyelcano grabbed the hilt without a second thought, and pulled the blade out of its smooth scabbard. The new dagger had a cold gleam to it; its weight and length was unfamiliar in the Counsellor's hands, and the soft engravings at its sides glimmered like tiny stars in the trembling light of candles.

Tyelcano stared at the weapon for several mute seconds, his hands numb, his head empty. He was silent for a minute, or perhaps a whole Age; he did not know and cared even less.

"Is it not to your liking…?" Curufinwë raised his brows lazily, disgruntledly, as if he himself could hardly believe the truth of his assumption.

"I – I have dreamed of this dagger, _cundunya,"_ Tyelcano said slowly, waveringly. "Several times."

Ten seconds passed in utter silence and stillness; then the Counsellor gave a short, unconvincingly bright smile.

"In those dreams," he lied, "it saved my life."

"Well - sometimes," said Curufinwë, and he clasped Tyelcano's arm in a warrior's farewell, "dreams come true."

~ § ~

_An explanation. There must be some sort of explanation, which I will probably find out later; but there is no time for that now. Lord Nelyo awaits, and patience is not one of his many virtues._

Tyelcano forced the roughly repaired hauberk back upon his shirt, then locked himself up in the dark cell of his formal robe once again; the one with the Star shining golden across his chest upon a deep blue field: so blue that it was almost black. He had worn the same colours as Herald of Finwë, as Principal Advisor of the High King, as Head of the Great Council in Tirion, as Regent Lord of Formenos and as Chief Captain of the High King just as well as First Counsellor of the Warden in the East. That robe of blue velvet was thick with duties and heavy with responsibilities; it smelled of blood and futile efforts, and reeked of mistakes and inconsistencies; yet there was also a lightness to it, a gush of wind and the strain of power. Still… now, as the Counsellor locked the last of its clasps upon the collar, he suddenly felt like his robe carried the Doom of the Valar itself, and their scythe had just bit his neck through the chainmail.

 _I'm being highly illogical_ , Tyelcano insisted, determined to calm his revolting heart. _No more than a few weeks ago, I've concluded that my dreams held no particular consistency or coherency: that they were a foggy mess of recurring symbols and threats of death. There is no way I could be sure of having seen this particular weapon in my visions, while I'm not even sure if I saw archers or trees or a gate! And from this moment on, certainly, my mind shall pair up Lord Curvo's gift with the dagger from my dreams; therefore, I shall surely dream of this exact dagger from now on. How can I be so ridiculous…? Perhaps I have even offended the lord, while the only thing he did was giving me a gift – apart from measuring me from head to toes to prepare another._

The Counsellor shook his head, and shrugged the whole matter off with a veil of calm and soberness, a privilege of diplomats.

 _It was nothing if not interesting, though,_ he admitted silently as his horse was led out of the stables. A guard informed him that his escort had rode far out to the open lands, while the Lord Warden was waiting for him at the gates; the two parties were supposed to meet at the Pass of Aglon.

_There must be something, some small detail that linked the two images in my mind. Perhaps the length of the weapon – I have never owned a dagger quite like this, so it was foreign to my hands. Or it might have been the form of the hilt… and it would be unwise to forget as well that I received it barely an hour before setting out on a dangerous journey. It is very easy to feel such foreboding when one's mind is weary, and sharpened to see ill omens everywhere._

Tyelcano sighed. Here was a stern reminder that he, even _he_ could be driven too far by his emotions. It seemed entirely unnecessary to create himself more problems and grievances than he already had.

_This dagger is a fine gift and nothing more. What I said to Lord Curvo may as well prove true – it shall probably save my life upon the road._

The Counsellor took a deep breath, straightened his back and rallied his horse out of the courtyard, towards the gates.

§ ~ § ~ §

The clatter of hooves of the two horses seemed to have been swallowed up by the dim, heavy layer of fog sprawling above the wide wastelands. The riders sat stiff, motionless, every muscle tense as if spying upon enemies in the colourless landscape; but there was not a soul to be seen, nor anything else. The fog hid them just as much as it veiled any approaching foes - not that their presence was much likely in the heart of the Marches.

Tyelcano had been surprised to see Tulcestelmo at the gates. The Captain of Guards was standing on top of the wall, cold and stern like a sculpture of a king long dead; he nodded in recognition when the Counsellor led his horse through the cramped rear gate of the fortress. The Captain offered him his arm in a warrior's farewell and wished him a good journey, voicing his hope that the he would return soon.

And then suddenly there he was, out in the wide wastelands with no more than his lord's great white destrierin his heels; for they had promised to join their escort at the Pass, under the last watchtower's grim, dark walls. The Sun was probably rising, but nothing could be seen of it through the fog – they were well inside the month of Lótessë, yet the last chilly breath of winter still lingered in Himlad's lands.

Tyelcano let out a soft sigh to see if his breath was visible - it was. He shifted a little in the saddle, categorically ignoring the sudden longing he felt for his comfortable suite, somewhere behind (and well above) his back. The Himring may have looked grim and fearsome to the eyes of an outsider; but hot fires burned night and day behind the thick walls, soft, heavy curtains shut out the creeping fingers of the north wind, and every single soul inside was well fed and garmented.

When Maedhros first spoke, they were galloping through a wide meadow, encircled by the stooping hills of Aglon; neither could see them, but as they knew every rock and every hog's back in the wastelands, they sensed their closeness.

"You are wordless," the lord said, and Tyelcano had to smile.

"I am your messenger, lordship; I speak only if asked. _You_ are wordless, though."

Silence stretched between them for a while and Tyelcano glanced carefully towards the lord. Maedhros's features would have been unreadable for the eyes of a stranger - but not for his Counsellor, who had led him by the hand when he was still an elfling.

"You are not convinced if you've made the right choice," Tyelcano said straight to his eye. There, he risked being angrily reminded of his role as a messenger – notably speaking only if asked -, but as part of him had expected, Maedhros only let out a soft sigh, returning his stare.

"No, I am not."

"And why is that?"

"I still profoundly dislike the idea of sending my most trusted advisor to such a sinister journey… And then I need to remind myself that said _sinister journey_ consists of nothing more than crossing Beleriand to safely deliver a message to the High King – _one message!_ When did we allow our enemies to bar us out of our own lands? This is outrageous, and an insult to our noble people!" Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment, then he said, without his previous fervour, "I am beginning to agree with Kano when it comes to the retaking of the Gap. I shall see how many swords can Carnistir assemble… it might as well be enough."

"You have plans," said Tyelcano.

"I do."

"Since when?"

"Since I spoke with my brother," said Maedhros measuredly. "No, that is not entirely true: I've been having them for a long time, perhaps ever since the Flames; but I put them to conscious thought only yestereve. And I daresay that they're well-founded plans, save for the part where I send you off to the wilderness to meet your fate. I wish I could do that in your place." A small crease appeared upon the lord's forehead. "Even so," he murmured, his eyes glimmering dimly in the faint mockery of a morning light, "considering everything..."

Here, his voice trailed off and he sank back to his gloomy mood as if his thoughts were too dark to put to words. The sky began to slightly lighten behind his silhouette and Tyelcano knew they had to make speed.

"You cannot consider _everything_ , my lord," a nearly invisible smile played at the corners of his lips. "That would take all the years and Ages of Arda that are still to come. Someone must deliver your message to the High King, and not by written word. You cannot take this mission upon your shoulders, lordship; we both know that."

"That is not the questionable part," his lord said with a strange coldness creeping into his voice. "The questionable part is what will happen if the quest fails and I send you to your death."

"In that case, such is my fate; but I strongly believe that the Valar are guarding and guiding us. Yes, lord, even us," he emphasized as he saw Maedhros rolling his eyes. "Do not think I wouldn't be merrier staying by your side, yet we need to get your message to the High King, and swiftly. Still... leave haste to me, lordship, I beg you! You don't like to wait, you never did and never would; though you have already learned to be patient through the years, even if it makes you itch. This is the path I advise you to take once more: the path of forbearance."

"Patience will not help me now," Maedhros's voice was coarse, even rough.

"Patience always helps, my lord."

The only answer the statement earned him was a swift pull that resonated through his whole body, as his horse turned to follow the lord's proud stallion, uphill at last. They were coming close to the Pass; the last watchtower emerged from the pale green verdure like a black lance, fires burning below its narrow windows. Their orange glow pierced through the fog and made Tyelcano's eyes water for a few moments.

"Let us linger here for a while," Maedhros said with a sigh, when they reached the hilltop. "We have one gruesome business left with each other."

Following some silent accord, they both jumped off their horses, letting them taste what remained of the dead-grey mountain grass. Despite the rains, the hill was becoming bald.

"As you say, Lord Warden," said Tyelcano, for he knew he had to say something, yet he recognized the lord's foul mood just as well, and he was determined to remain as calm and collected as possible.

"You must forgive me for retaining my message this long," Maedhros said, his voice softer now. "I had hoped in vain that speaking would be easier if I tired myself with a long ride out."

"And shan't it be, my lord?"

Maedhros laughed softly. "I did not tire myself."

The idea was bold, unruly and slightly insolent even; moreover, it should not have been acted out with his best robes on, this far out in the wilderness on a cold, foggy morning like it was; yet Tyelcano's hand and mouth moved on their own accord.

"Then let me tire you, lordship!"

And Curufinwë's dagger flew out from its scabbard.

Whenever Tyelcano sparred with someone he knew, the only thing he heeded were the eyes: two shiny windows inside the soul of the other, warning him, guiding him, and betraying their owner. While fighting, Maedhros's eyes were oft empty or shut like barred gates; and some other times, the pride and fury of singing steel made the lord's gaze flicker with harmless scorn and amusement (though never joy). This time, though, his eyes were wide and unguarded, and Tyelcano saw a flicker of surprise and naked turmoil in them, before they narrowed and the veil of impassivity descended upon them.

Fighting Tyelcano of the Marches with a longsword against that dagger was indeed a tiring business, and it required a lot of jumping, rolling, swearing and running around from both of them; yet for once in a lifetime, it was the lord who sweated first, and had they fought to blood, Tyelcano would have slit his left thigh open once. That would have made the Counsellor worry if he had time to consider anything else than the steady rhythm of his own strikes and slashes, and his constant awareness of the deadly longsword dancing around him.

Then suddenly came a moment when he leapt forward, arms and legs moving on their own accord, in a reckless and wild jump, his entire being alert and tense with the energy of fighting. The dagger jerked forward, and the whole length of the blade touched the lord's right shoulder. Had they fought to blood…

The next thing the Counsellor knew, he was lying face-up in what felt like a whole lake of dew, thin strands of grass slashing-and-slashing his entire body like blades of steel. A knee was pressed most uncomfortably against his guts, and the lord's longsword, with its entire width, rested across his throat.

"That was a good fight," said Maedhros almost cheerfully. His eyes were dark and furious, and his face was close, very close. "I admire your self-control. If I'll ever get you like that with a sharpened sword, I'll probably slash you open like a sack of corns. For a moment, I wondered if I should."

"Not the throat, m'lord," Tyelcano mumbled against his tears of pain. The touch of Maedhros's knee was getting sharp and heavy in his stomach. "That would considerably diminish my charms as your honey-tongued envoy."

"As would your robes getting dirty? What will the High King say? You look like some errant knight from a realm of Men."

"Everything and anything for m'lord's contentment," said Tyelcano, not without scorn. "And now would you be so kind and gracious and remove your entire weight off my stomach?"

"If you ask so politely," said Maedhros, and he did so. The longsword disappeared as well; and the lord settled beside him in the dead grass, and sighed.

"If you've collected your guts, I shall tell you my message."

"My guts are just fine, lordship," Tyelcano sat up as well, crossed his legs, and threw an indecipherable glance upon Maedhros. "All they needed was a little space." He sighed, liberating the air long stuck in his lungs. "I'm listening."

Maedhros looked up to meet his eyes; and Tyelcano saw that his gaze was barred again.

"Whatever you will hear now," the lord said slowly, "you shall receive it as if you were a blank paper being spotted with ink. As much as I value your opinion and insight in general, in this case, I don't want to hear it, or to see it expressed in any way. Have I been clear?"

"Entirely, lordship," said Tyelcano, beginning to suspect that he would not like what he was about to hear.

"Also – I have already told you that this was a secret message. However, there is one rule I would like to overwrite. If, for any reason, you find yourself unable to continue your journey, don't pass on the message. No one else can know. You keep it to yourself, and the High King is going to receive it another time, however urgent it would be. Understood?"

Tyelcano took a deep breath, then nodded his accord.

"Good," said Maedhros, and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Wind was rising in the north, and a relentless army of grey clouds was gathering over the Hills of Aglon. The air was cold for the fifth month, even in the Himring; yet despite the promise of rain in the air, the Sun was rising well above the earth somewhere behind them, and both lord and Counsellor knew that they did not have much time left.

And with a stormy sigh, Maedhros started speaking.

" _Findekáno,"_ he said, his voice faint as a prayer, entirely forgetting about the three minutes long litany of courtesies that was supposed to precede any manner of communication with the High King. "I received your word on the ides of Lótessë, from your messenger, Nirwion; and I received it with a heavy heart, since similar visions have been plaguing both me and my Counsellor for months now. Withering flowers, banners flopping in the wind, darkness, icy peaks, a white city draped in moonlight, the scream of crows, forebodings of death and havoc… we've all seen the same things. My own dreams are hazy and indistinct, often delirious and filled with terror; yet their regularity and similarity have long convinced me that they did not take part of my usual nightmares, no matter how reluctant I first was to consider that possibility. These visions, cousin, are trying to warn us. My heart tells me that Moringotto is not satisfied by his swift and complete victory in the Battle of Flames; that he's plotting against us at this very minute, seeking our deaths and ruin. Orcs linger in my lands, and bother my people. The roads across Beleriand are dangerous, and one cannot walk them without escort. Strange tales have reached my ears about the errands of Lúthien, the daughter of the Moriquend-king, and her lover, a mortal Man… and since then, my vision has cleared. I can see the damage the Oath has caused to my family… And my heart trembles when I think of what future may bring if we have the misfortune to forget who the real enemy is – that it is and it _will be,_ always and forever, Moringotto the Accursed. We need to counter his schemes with such power and endurance we have; and for that reason, I shall seek counsel and gather allies. For too long we have wobbled around, crushed by the Enemy's last blow! We need to steady our feet again, and chase His servants from the lands that have been ours for centuries. My will and my first intention, Findekáno, is to put an end to all bitter grievances and endless strife between the Quendi, and bring peace to our dominions; and these I shall do, with your help if you grant it, and with the support of any free folk who might offer it. This is the decision I have made, and this is the path I shall take; and no living thing can stand in my way!"

Here, Maedhros fell silent for a while, and when he spoke again, his voice was much softer.

"Then again, of course, you are no fool. You know just as well as I that Thingol has a Silmaril; and you know as well that sooner or later, I shall be forced to do something about it, lest my Oath torment me to insanity. Yet you need not to fear; I shall do Doriath no harm, and no Oath can crack my mind… not after what I have been through. It shan't come to war, or even the slightest bloodshed; I will not let the old wounds fester any further. We have a common Enemy, at least; woe to the times when that Enemy shall be defeated, so nothing shall stand between me and the Moriquendi!" Here, Maedhros laughed softly, then his face suddenly darkened; and Tyelcano knew that he spoke as if it was truly his cousin who listened.

"…Yet doubt, cruel doubt pervades my thoughts; for along with the strange dreams, my illness has also returned," said the lord, and his hand tightened into a fist. "And it is _bad,_ Findekáno, it hasn't been this bad for a very long time. It is all back… I am happy if I fall healthily asleep once a week, only to be dragged awake by the sensation of being suffocated – sometimes screaming, completely out of my mind, the way I used to be when… it doesn't matter. _I cannot stomach this._ I can barely eat. I am feverish. I often need to draw blood – _do you know how hard it is to draw blood with one hand?!_ – then the smell gives me nausea and the fit worsens, instead of tiring me out. I almost dread the moment when night falls and I have to find rest – there is no rest, no calm to find in my chambers, only dust and ghosts. And darkness makes them grow. What sort of warlord am I if I'm afraid in the dark?! How am I supposed to protect my people if I can't even _sleep?"_ Maedhros's voice had a furious edge to it. "I feel like I am going to tire, and to be blown out like a candle in the wind. Yet who could I speak to…? No one can know of my weaknesses, not even my brothers, _least of all my brothers_ – they shall be the downfalls of each other, and of us all if things continue the way they are now. If one day, the mask I wear as Lord of the Himring falls down, we're all doomed… and that mask is full of cracks. Someone has to keep my men together, to bond them together, and I know it has to be _me,_ because who else would do it…? Everything around me is so fragile, so ephemeral; it feels as though the slightest breeze of wind could ruin everything I have built. And they call me the Warden of the East! And they praise me as the Enemy of the Enemy… and that is what I have to be! Can you see now how cruel you were under that cliff…? I told you to shoot that arrow, Findekáno. _I told you to shoot it…"_

Maedhros's voice trailed off for several seconds; and when he spoke again, his tone was surprisingly flat.

"Sometimes, I feel miles away from everyone. I cannot even hear them speak … it would be relaxing, if not for the memories. I am alone those times, Findekáno – there is only _me_ around, and that is when I truly see myself, and what I have become. I am not who you think I am. _I am only some wretch who is afraid of that thrice-damned dark!_ Or maybe not of the dark itself, but of the forms it takes. I am afraid of re-living things again and again; dreams are only dreams, you may say… but I feel the lash, the shackles, the thirst and hunger, and the numbing persuasion of being utterly, entirely doomed, helpless against Moringotto's appetite for cruelty and abuse…the images my mind creates are sharp and believable; so believable that _you_ would believe them if you saw them… that any sane person would believe them… for they are so _wonderfully_ detailed! Afterwards, I oft wonder about them, in complete awe. How could I, crippled of body and mind, be capable of creating such perfect illusions…? Is this a sign of madness…? My train of thoughts always stops at the concept of _madness_ , though. I cannot be mad, Findekáno, can I? I cannot allow myself such luxuries. I have a castle to rule, a household to look after to, six brothers to keep at bay… I cannot go _mad,_ not right now, I don't have time… Forgive me, I've rambled." Maedhros held up his chin with two fingers, his eyes suddenly livelier. "Yet these dreams, Findekáno… I cannot help but think that the dreams worsen my condition, or that they are somehow related to it. They tend to mingle with the _shadow-assaults_ , sometimes I cannot even know if I am awake or dreaming. My visions are calling for me, pulling me in, and I am lost in them… sometimes I feel like I would never emerge from their pit, and don't even want to. In my delirious dreams, I understand connections and coherencies I have never before perceived, then I forget them as soon as the Sun is up and I open my eyes. 'Tis maddening. I see the same dreams you've described almost every night now: I see the banners, the crows and the withering flowers before they turn into vivid set-scenes of Angamando. And _He_ is always there, Findekáno, laughing at me… It makes me anxious to know that these visions have reached you, too; that _you_ could be suffering from them as well. I pray that you'd heed my warning and _keep them secret_. Do not speak about them – it could be dangerous. People talk… and stories grow by the telling. I hope that you, unlike my brothers, will listen to me and remember that." Maedhros sighed.

"Elsewise, there is nothing to say. I am anxious and exhausted, and that makes me restless. There are so many other events I'd love to tell you about, but my time is growing short. But don't worry about me, Findekáno; worry about yourself, and most of all, worry about these visions. They are not likely to go away. As soon as Himlad is cleansed of the Orc-filth, I shall find a way to visit you so we could talk. You must as well have many things to say. Fare well! Take care of yourself… and whatever happens, whatever you might hear, please _don't do anything rash."_ Maedhros made a noise under his breath that could have been a chuckle if there was any joy in it. "Fare well, Aranya."

With that, it was over.

As soon as he finished his speech, Maedhros stood, and went for a walk around the bald hill-top; and Tyelcano took advantage of the gesture to arrange his thoughts. If he'd previously disliked the idea of leaving his lord alone, by now he outright _loathed_ it, and every fibre of his being trembled at the thought of Maedhros facing his fits of panic alone; yet he knew that his only other choice would be to see the lord himself leave, and _that_ would have proved even more excruciating for his loyal heart.

 _The only thing I can do,_ Tyelcano concluded, _is make speed_. _To come back to him, and quickly. To accomplish the task I was given._

It happened thus that when Maedhros came back to him, Tyelcano's face was solemn and collected; and he patted the ground beside him, as calmly and naturally as if they have only been chatting about the weather.

"Come, Lord Nelyo," he said, "sit with me for a moment."

Maedhros sat, and he looked at him with a stern, rigorous expression that made Tyelcano remember his last promise.

_No comments._

"Please, lordship," he sighed, "just accept four words of counsel from me. Will you?"

Maedhros's countenance somewhat softened. "Go ahead."

"Candles," said Tyelcano vigorously, "music, books – _and a valar-damned healer!"_

Maedhros, who had intended to count all those words out upon his fingers, stared at him disparagingly.

"Are you familiar with the concept of _number four,_ Tyelco?"

"…and sleep at least thrice a week, I beg you!" Tyelcano sighed, ignoring him. "And please, lordship, _don't draw your own blood._ Your condition could worsen or you could fall insensible and if you don't stop the flow…"

"You promised me something, Counsellor!" his lord reminded him in a ringing voice.

"My promise be damned," Tyelcano leaned forward, and took that beloved face between his palms, in a way he rarely dared to. "Listen to me, lordship – _those visions shall not break you._ They did not break you before, and they are not about to break you _now._ You are stronger than them, and you shall lead us all to victory against that Orc-filth. If you say that you can, I believe it. I believe _you_. _You_ are the Warden of the East, _you_ are the Enemy of the Enemy. _You_ are our beacon of hope, and _you_ shall open those gates from the dreams, whatever their significance might be – you shall not let this world wither! I know that much. Be strong, lordship, and wait for me; I will be back by your side in an instant."

Maedhros said nothing, his eyes narrow and distant; and Tyelcano sighed.

"I know what you're thinking at this moment," he said. "You're disappointed, because you have let your mask slip, you showed me your insecurities, something you've been forced to do; and I'm still capable of speaking of hope and victory…! Yet I have known for a long time that you doubted yourself; I know you well, lordship, and I have at least a notion about what plagues your heart… Yet I have just as much of a notion about who you truly are and what you're capable of. We… we will speak of this another time, a time when we shall be allowed to; but please keep in mind that _I believe in you._ Fare well, lordship! May good fortune help you with all your plans!"

"And may my blessings guard you upon the road," said Maedhros stilly; and to Tyelcano's astonishment, the lord leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "You're a treasure I cannot afford losing, Counsellor," he said with a wry smile, then extended his hand. "Here, take my ring! It may serve you well; give it to my cousin when you see him."

"This is your father's seal-ring, lordship," said Tyelcano uneasily. "Are you certain you want me to…?"

"Don't make me ask you thrice. _Take it!"_

Tyelcano obeyed; but when he wanted to sink the ring into his saddlebag, Maedhros's quick fingers thwarted his movement, and the ring slid safely upon the middle finger of his right hand. It did not cling to his skin nearly as perfectly as it would fit its original owner.

"Now-now," said Maedhros with a strange smile. "It stays there, understood? You are supposed to be _me_ now, messenger."

"I will not fail you," Tyelcano promised.

"That I dearly hope," said his lord. "Fare well!"

Tyelcano spurred his proud stallion to meet his escort of nine Elves, who were waiting for him near the Tower of Aglon, as promised. Five of the party were the High King's soldiers, clad in the rich blue-and-silver of Ñolofinwë's household. Maedhros's own four scouts were bright patches of red-and-golden against them; and as he came closer, Tyelcano was surprised to see young Antalossë among them. He turned his head to ask his lord about the choice, but Maedhros had stayed upon the bald hilltop, and raised his hand in a soundless farewell. Tyelcano returned the courtesy, then turned his horse's head towards his companions, and burst into gallop.

He looked back once more, battling his own stern will; by then, the Tower of Aglon was nowhere, nor could the lowering hills be seen. He saw the Himring in the distance, tall and proud upon the flat cleeve upon which it had been built; and as he eyed Maedhros's flags fluttering proudly in the wind, a dark, daunting sense of certainty pierced through his heart.

He knew he would not see that castle in its glory, he would not see those gleaming red-and-golden flags flapping above its gates ever again; and the truth of that realization was so cruel, so overwhelming that he almost reeled out of his saddle.

Yet he barred that ruthless foresight out of his head and rode on; for he knew that duty would not melt away, no matter how much he might wish it to.

(To Be Continued)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lótessë " is Quenya for the month of May.
> 
> "Aranya" stands for "my King" in Quenya.
> 
> Maedhros suffering from PTSD is a very old concept of mine - and not very original, I suppose... We'll see more of it later; now that Tyelcano leaves the Himring, he'll have a chance to step forward as a viewpoint character.


	19. Steel to Temper

" _What we've got here is failure to communicate;_  
Some men, you just can't reach.  
So, you get what we had here last week, which is the way he wants it -  
whatever, he gets it!  
(No, I don't like it any more than you men)." *

~ § ~

* * *

 

**XIX. Steel to Temper**

_**The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the twenty-first day of Lótessë** _

Someone knocked sharply on the smithy's door, and Curufinwë felt his lips curve into a solemn smile as his mind refused to acknowledge all happenings related to the intruder.

"Look at this, Maril," he said instead. The vapours of sweating steel rose right up to his eyes and wetted his hair, but it mattered little: the course of his purpose was straight and clear, and it lay right under his gloved hands. "Look at it! Take the hammer, it shan't bite you. Good. Now tell me what you see."

"The steel was not clean, Master Curufinwë," said the apprentice keenly. "The visor did not have the right amount of silver in it."

"Which would be?"

"Eight ounces out of ten, Master."

Another _knock_ was left ignored.

"…good. Can you tell me what kind of alloy do we have here?"

"Silver with copper, Master."

"What else?"

At the next furious _knock-knock-knock_ , the apprentice's eyes wandered to the door, but when Curufinwë did not seem to pay any heed to the noise, he forced his attention back to the smelter.

"The black patches could be lead, maybe…?"

"You could use a bit more confidence, child," Curufinwë furrowed his brows and leaned closer. There was another element in the slowly decomposing steel; slightly similar with clean silver, yet dark and dull where it was shiny, sleazy and bitty where it was smooth and melted…

Curufinwë swore under his breath as he heard the upcoming _knock-knocks_ evolving into blatant _bang-bangs_. He had no choice but to storm to the back of the room, and open the door. He performed the deed so abruptly that Tyelkormo's tall, lean figure almost fell across the smithy's doorstep – it seemed that his brother had been preparing to push his fist into the protesting wood, supported by the entire weight of his body, in a last, invincible _boom_.

" _Finally!"_ His brother sighed, rolling his eyes. "I was beginning to doubt you were in there at all."

"Then, if I close the door again and pretend I am beyond the Circles of the World, will you let me work in peace?"

"Ha!" Said Tyelkormo, and for the fraction of a second, Curufinwë could see open mirth in his eyes; then it vanished, and only wariness remained. "Not today. We need to talk."

"Then come in. You have roughly ten minutes until I reheat the smelters."

"I can reheat them for you, Master," Maril's voice was thick with excitement and jabbering with plea. "I saw you doing it before. That way, you shall not be disturbed!"

Curufinwë shot a sharp glance at his apprentice, then looked back at the solemn face of his brother, who stood in the doorway like a rock, reluctant to give space. Annoying as the timing might have been, Tyelkormo would not have forced his company upon him if it wasn't strictly necessary.

"All right then, young one," he said, "you may reheat the small smelter and finish our work for this morn. But heed my warning: if so much as a chisel shall be jagged by the time I come back, you shan't touch _anything_ in my workshop ever again. Is that clear?"

"Clear as crystal, Master Curufinwë," said Maril, somewhat shaken.

"I have seen clearer things," said the smith; yet it was not so much for chiding as for the sake of comedy (and, perhaps, for the sake of having the last word), and the boy seemed to note that as well.

~ § ~

The citadel's four great bastions loomed behind the brothers like greedy fangs as they exited the smithy and walked through the backyard, amidst empty spotting posts and ruinous store-cells, all overgrown by amber and ivy. It seemed that Nelyafinwë's household did not have the means to men all the peeking watchtowers around the lesser regions of the Himring…

Tyelkormo offered his arm and Curufinwë took it, suddenly grateful for the spring wind's caresses on his face and neck; his newly regained – _pretended_ – devotion for work had deprived him of such sensations for what seemed like a very long time.

It was a fair day: and what clouds stormed through the clear skies were frail and almost transparent, lighter than the finest white silk; the sort of clouds that brought no rain, and were too thin to veil the Sun. And they flew high, _very high,_ Curufinwë knew; unfathomably far above the lands and hills, where not even Moringotto's black hands could blemish them.

Tyelkormo spoke no word until they were far out in the training fields, and well across a group of sparring soldiers at the opposite corner; and Curufinwë knew better than to rush him. He tried to enjoy the weather instead, and when his elder finally halted, he picked a nice, untamed spot among daisies and dandelions, and settled down to stretch his legs. He had been working all night, and suddenly found that he could easily fall asleep, if not for the sharp nervousness radiating from his brother.

Curufinwë crossed his legs in a pretence of comfort, and folded his hands in his lap.

"Well?"

"Well," Tyelkormo settled down beside him (careful so that their eyes would not meet, or so it seemed to Curufinwë), then removed his cloak and folded it, lightly yet with respect, the way Mother would. One time, he got a folding line wrong so he shook out the whole cloak and restarted the process. Once he succeeded, though, he suddenly decided he would much rather undo the foldings, and spread the stained fabric around his shoulders again.

"Quit your fidgeting," Curufinwë snapped.

"Tricky weather," said Tyelkormo. "Care for breakfast?"

"You wanted to talk to me, I trust?"

"That, too. But I just came home from patrol, and I would not mind spending some time merely… sitting with you. At peace."

_Peace._

Curufinwë sternly reminded himself that throwing a sardonic laugh into his brother's face would probably not be considered as a polite (or well-earned) action.

"Well," he said instead, "if that _breakfast_ you mentioned means dried meat and other horrid things they fed you on the road, then you're very welcome to share it with someone else," He threw a lazy glance on his brother's storm-beaten bundle. "What have you in there?"

"Delicacies," came the theatrical answer (and a demonstration to prove it right). "Honey to sweeten your tongue, as one."

When Curufinwë did not even smile, Tyelkormo added, with a puzzled expression on his face, "It's not so difficult to switch back to… _normal life,_ isn't it? To the life of a decent person, who has something to eat every day and a home to return to…"

"You feel humbled, huh?" Curufinwë snorted. "Is that what ails you?"

"I may have felt that way," said Tyelkormo cautiously. "But I no longer do. I… I have been thinking about things – _everything_ – a lot, Curvo, and I wanted to know… _I want to know how you feel."_

Curufinwë slowly, methodically opened the honey jar, dipped his brother's spoon in it, and licked it off.

His tongue didn't feel sweetened.

"How I feel… about what? My _feelings,_ as you call them, are rather reserved these days."

"So have I noticed," Tyelkormo sighed. "Three times I departed with the scouts, and three times I came back without seeing you outside your workshop. Do you even eat, brother? Do you even _sleep?"_

"Sometimes," Curufinwë tilted his head. "And, occasionally."

He stuffed another spoonful of honey in his mouth, so that the rest of the sentence would echo only in his head,

… _why, you're the first one to ask._

Tyelkormo threw a long, clever glance at him above his bread-and-butter, and for less than a heartbeat, Curufinwë feared he'd spoken aloud.

"It is not what I have been expecting, to be sure," his brother finally said, and his lips curved slightly; so slightly that Curufinwë could not call it a smile. "When Nelyo spoke his judgement, I… I was convinced you would choose exile, you know."

"Well, so was I."

"I'm glad that you changed your mind, Curvo."

Curufinwë smiled innocently. "I did not."

The bread yanked to a stop in Tyelkormo's hand, and a bit of butter landed upon his nose. Curufinwë felt a sudden, ferocious need to rub it off, but his brother's eyes went wide, and – somehow – fearsome and fearful at the same time.

" _What do you mean you did not?!"_

Curufinwë gave a resigned sigh, and pulled another, not-so-convincing layer upon his mask of careless pretence.

"You cannot be stupid enough to drag me out of my workshop, only to repeat a conversation we've already had! You know my opinion, Tyelko: I have already told you that we were different, you and I, and what was best for you may not prove best for me. _My_ interest would have been to hit the road and try my luck once again, one last time… yet sometimes, we're bound to put others' well-being before our own. Thus have I stayed, and thus am I newly… _invested_ in my work."

His voice sounded like it was about to betray him again.

Tyelkormo raised his brows. "I thought you enjoyed it…?"

"Oh?" Curufinwë laughed, his voice full of mirth… _his eyes two bottomless dark wells_. "But I do! _I do!_ I have never been happier in my life!"

He choked on that last sentence; and his voice trailed off, suddenly croaky and utterly, completely – powerless.

"Forget it, Tyelko," he said wretchedly. "I cannot do this. Not with you. _Forget it_."

"Well you would do well to stop indeed," his brother said coolly. "I shall not be fooled."

Curufinwë forced down another spoonful of honey, but somehow that, too, felt bitter.

"Might we try this once again, then?" He sighed, and did not even wait for Tyelkormo to nod. "If you must know, I have spoken with Counsellor Tyelcano after… _after all that happened_. Or I should rather say that _he_ spoke with _me;_ and as a result, I was forced to choose between two vicious things. I chose the one that seemed a little less vicious for our family and more mortifying for me… you might as well say that I killed myself, Tyelko," Curufinwë shrugged. "Of course, I could not tell the poor Counsellor just that… he would not have deserved it, the faithful old dog. Thankfully, my self-control did not betray me then, and he departed with the assumption that I was perfectly satisfied and thankful, beaming with life and excitement, and searching for new purposes. Also, that I was feeling better, and being useful, and alive, that sort of thing. I think he desperately wanted to believe all that, so it worked… that was my chance, for otherwise, he would not have been so easy to fool."

Tyelkormo was watching him with a very strange expression.

"And are you not alive, at least?"

"Alive, yes, in the sense of breathing and spitting on things," Curufinwë shrugged. "But I… how could I even hope to explain it? _This,_ all of this is terrible for me, Tyelko. I have never felt so deeply, so utterly, so hopelessly uprooted. I see myself like a pariah of sorts, an unwanted person, like that one brother everyone would much rather forget, and no one would invite to the dinner-table if not for the sake of blood-forged bonds!" Curufinwë fell silent for a few seconds, amazed by the harshness and the bile seeping from his own voice; yet now that he spoke his mind, the rest came spilling out. "I don't want to be just _silently tolerated_ at council meetings, at dinners, in the courtyard! And if such an amount of scorn wouldn't make me miserable enough, I can always feel Nelyo's eyes on me: watching, pondering if I'm planning to betray and murder him now or only later. He would not let me move a grass-blade without his knowledge, because _he trusts me not,_ he told me so, you heard him, the Counsellor heard him, _we have all heard him!_ Do you not see, Tyelko, how my name has been besmirched, how my person bemired…? Do you think I have earned this…? And even if I truly have: for every sinner, there is a trial, and at every trial, the accused must have a choice."

"And you had one!"

"Ah-hah, that is where you err," Curufinwë laughed mirthlessly. "What words have been said between me and Tyelcano have left me with no choice but to stay within these walls and _endure..._ And all I can think of now is how great would it be to _live,_ to ride around Beleriand on my own horse, as my whole master, doing what I please! Tasks be damned! Responsibilities be damned! Past, present and future be thrice-damned! For I am tired, so tired of _everything!_ Yet if this cannot be, and my fate is to stay here and be despised, at least let me continue being despised in piece and silence, and – most importantly – _alone!"_

"Trust is a fragile thing, brother," said Tyelkormo in a puzzled voice. "We broke it."

"Oh, don't start with that!" Curufinwë seethed, suddenly tempted to let out all his anger and frustration. _"You_ broke it, is what you wanted to say. And Counsellor Tyelcano told me the same thing. _It is said that the blades of trust are hard to forge and easy to blunt,_ he cooed in that deep wise voice of his _, yet once they are sharpened anew, they slice the very stones from the earth._ And he expected me to believe that. Trust is granted or denied, Tyelko – it _is_ there or it _isn't._ There are no logical foundations for trust! Elsewise, we'd always be capable of thinking through our choices and decisions, and we could not be deceived."

"I do not agree with you," Tyelkormo swallowed. "I refuse to. We have done wrong things, Curvo, and when I say _we,_ then that is what I mean. I was part of it, just as much as you were. Neither of us is blameless… Yet I am convinced, _I am entirely sure_ that there is a way back for us, a way to regain Nelyo's trust and a way to make him proud! And if there wasn't… well, even then, we would be obliged to _try!_ But you know our brother, Curvo, _you know him,_ he will understand, and he will reward everything that could be rewarded!"

" _Do you mean that we should start begging for things that are ours by birth-right?!"_ Curufinwë said in a low voice.

"Nelyo's trust is no birth-right. We have cruelly misused it. Now we must be punished."

"And, as usual, my punishment is bigger than yours."

"Indeed?" Tyelkormo's voice was very still, yet somewhat menacing. "Mine, who roams about Himlad restlessly, among ruined watchtowers and bowelled corpses? Mine, who still lives on salt beef and lukewarm water? Mine, who…" His voice trailed off, as if something had dawned on him. "But wait, maybe you are right," he said then, his tone suddenly mocking and vicious. "Maybe it is truly more difficult for you to lock yourself up in your workshop all day, and order your apprentices around, than it is for me to protect our borders! Maybe it is much easier to try and face your own mistakes and learn from them, to try and learn how to be humble while it is clearly against your nature, then to crawl around in the dark, cursing and muttering under your breath, trying to deny your faults – and failing miserably at it! Oh, my poor-poor brother, how _horrible_ is your fate! How _outrageous_ it is that you have been forgiven! It must be a _horrendous_ punishment for one so selfish and vain you to be faced with generosity beyond justice! You are right, you should have been kicked out from this castle and dragged along Himlad's wastelands for every eye to see: that is what you would have deserved! Shame on you, Curufinwë, and on everything you said! How can you still feel sorry for yourself?!"

There was a long pause.

"You have a bit of butter on your nose," Curufinwë said.

"Butter," Tyelkormo responded, puzzled, as if unsure of the word's meaning.

"Aye. Right there. No, _there_. No… let me," Curufinwë leaned forward. "There," He licked his fingers. "It goes well with the honey."

Tyelkormo was looking at him with wide eyes.

"Curvo…?"

"Hm?"

"… _hm_ is all you have to say?!" Fury was filtering back into his brother's voice. "Quit mumbling! Quit muttering incoherent phrases and _answer me!"_

"I have nothing to answer."

Tyelkormo grabbed Curufinwë by the shoulders and shook him so hard that his teeth clanked together.

" _Quit – being – all – dramatic – about – yourself!"_ He seethed. "Stop it! Stop this… _theatre,_ your pretences, your bad lies and big scenes, all the soundless sulking and the great monologues! Stop ignoring me and everything I say! Stop playing with the power of your voice, stop avoiding everyone, stop fooling me, stop flickering like a candle being blown out by the wind! _Just – stop!_ I can't help you if you shut me out! No one can! You will destroy yourself, Curvo, and no one will be able to help you then!"

"I don't want anyone to help me!" Curufinwë said, precisely articulating every word. "I don't want to be helped! I don't want to get better! I prefer crawling around my workshop in the darkness, as you call it. Just leave me be! You are not helping by forcing yourself upon me. You are not helping by imagining in what exact way I should get better, and dragging me along, only to convince yourself that I am all right. I am no responsibility of yours, Tyelko. Nor anyone else's."

Tyelkormo stared deep into his eyes, and Curufinwë knew he saw the sincerity in them. Indeed; he truly meant what he just said.

The slap was open-handed, magnificently arched and so forceful that his whole skull resonated with the blast it gave; and for a few moments, his vision was reduced to bright spots floating upon an endless horizon of darkness. The slowly fading picture was so overwhelming that it shut out the sensation of pain for a whole minute, before Curufinwë could even think of raising his hand, and sticking a finger under his nose. Something was hot and wet there; and when he removed his hand, he saw that the skin was sticky and dark, and his mouth filled with the peculiar, metallic taste of blood.

Curufinwë flexed and unflexed the muscles in his hands, paying no heed to the red river dripping down his chin.

"I have enough problems without you breaking my nose, Tyelko," he said, his voice still flat. "But if that is what you want, I will suffer it. Go on. Hit me again. Trample me into the ground. Spit on me for all I care. I will not be cowed, and you will not change my mind. If you want to cause terrible pain, though, I'd rather suggest breaking my knees. Injuries effected upon my head may temporarily render me even more tunnel-visioned and stubborn than I already am, you see."

"I don't want to cause you pain," Tyelkormo said, his voice frightened. "I just want to _wake you._ I just want my brother back. At whatever cost. We have always threaded our paths together. Why would you suddenly leave me, Curvo? Is that what you would call fair? The witty, lofty-tongued dunderhead I know, the dunderhead you _are_ would not choose the easy way, and let himself be drowned in his own mistakes and stupidity! Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro, the brother I have known for long-long years would raise his head with pride and honour and he would _fight,_ because he would know he is needed!"

"Raising my head would mean looking around, and looking around would mean acknowledging things," said Curufinwë, a lot more honestly than intended. "I don't want to do that."

"Sooner or later, you must," Tyelkormo countered mercilessly. "Carnistir has come, and he brought an army of Men with him, along with many news. I met him yestereve out in the wastelands, then rode far ahead to bring Nelyo the word. I gravely doubt that _he_ would grant you the chance to go on hiding and skulking."

"I do what I please," said Curufinwë, and for a short moment, his usual loftiness crept back into his speech. "Tell me about this army of Men!"

"Come, eat with us tonight," said Tyelkormo, "and you may meet them. There is a Council to be held as well."

"I no longer frequent dinners and council meetings."

"Then crawl back to your cellars to feast on lead and bits of coal! If they're bitter enough, you might still come back to your right mind, and act like a son of our sire again!"

Curufinwë could feel from the tone and rhythm of his words that Tyelkormo had finally grow tired of him. He seemed more likely to finally leave him alone than to slap him again… However, the former prospect filled him with some deep, gut-wrenching sensation of dread rather than relief.

"Tyelko," he said in a low voice. "I am not wanted at the high table."

" _You are!"_

"You are the only one who wants me there."

"No. Our whole family wants you there, and it is your _duty_ to come. You must meet these Men, Curvo. They shall very likely be our new allies, and our only hope to drive the Orcs out of Himlad – if they could be trusted. Since the Counsellor is not here, Nelyo might have need of your mind-reading skills."

"I cannot read minds, Tyelko, you know that very well."

"But you're a fairly good liar," Tyelkormo winked. "Therefore, an excellent spotter of lies."

Curufinwë knew he was running out of arguments, and it seemed too cruel for his taste to deprive his brother of the sensation of victory. As he took in Tyelkormo's slender form once again, the shadow was lifted from his heart for an absent-minded moment; and his entire fëa welled with love and something akin with gratitude.

Would it hurt to give in to the only person's desires who cared about him? Would it hurt to go to that dinner and feel miserable _there,_ instead of continue feeling miserable down in the smithy? Curufinwë concluded that his choice did not matter. He could might as well go to that Valar-forsaken feast, and meet those miserable Men.

Tyelkormo was still looking at him expectantly, so he cleared his throat.

"Three things, Tyelko," he said. "One: I don't give a… _a single thought_ about your Men. Two: this dinner will put me through torment your feeble mind cannot imagine; therefore, you will have to compensate me. Thoroughly. And three… _I am not convinced_ – I have merely taken pity on you." Curufinwë crossed his arms. "And I might still change my mind until eve – but as things are now, then yes, I will go to that sorry dinner. But only for _your_ sake. I want you to remember that."

"I will," said Tyelkormo. His hands were warm as he raised them to his face. _"Thank you," Curvo,"_ he added slowly, sincerely. "You don't know how much this means to me."

"Well I suppose I don't," Curufinwë sighed. "But I _do_ know that if you don't pull out your water-skin in three seconds to clean my face, you're going to regret it. I cannot waltz around this castle all bloody and smudged like some scoundrel!"

"You _are_ a scoundrel," Tyelkormo raised his brows, but there was mirth in his eyes. "Maybe we all are."

The only answer Curufinwë gave to that was raising a finger; then, when Tyelkormo did not seem to get his meaning, he raised the second one.

"All right, all right!" His brother sighed, and proceeded to remove the patches of dried blood from his face. His skin was filled with watered wine, and Curufinwë sniffed at the faint scent of alcohol pervading his nostrils.

"Besides," he heard himself saying, "it might be worthy of note that _it still hurts_."

"Aye," Tyelkormo muttered, rubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of caked blood near his bottom lip. "I'm good at punching people."

"It has been a long time since I've had the chance to experience just _how_ good you are. It is truly exceptional."

"Should I thank you?" Tyelkormo winked, but his voice was regaining its seriousness. The more blood and dirt he removed from Curufinwë's face, the more he seemed to lose his humour.

"Ah…," he said after a time, "Curvo… I'm sorry. I didn't know I hit that hard."

"You left a mark," Curufinwë knew it would happen so. He knew it right from the moment he received the slap.

"I'm afraid I did."

"And?" Curufinwë smiled mockingly. "How do I look?"

"Like someone who's been punched in the face," Tyelkormo said truthfully. "By an expert."

"Wonderful. This is just what I needed now."

"But it also makes you look… fierce," his brother added hesitantly. "Like, I don't know, like someone who entered a fight with a band of Orcs with no more than a hunting dagger in hand."

"Oh yes, surely. And the Orcs just _slapped_ me instead of giving me a black eye at the very least."

Tyelkormo peered down on him with a hang-dog look, and Curufinwë drew a sharp breath.

" _I don't have a black eye, now, do I?"_

"Currently," Tyelkormo said diplomatically, "it's a red eye."

" _You filthy little…"_ Here, Curufinwë paused for a second to search for sufficiently grievous insults, but he could not quite choose, so he gave up with a resigned sigh. He felt too weak, too _uprooted_ to pursue such arguments.

"I told you, I'm _so_ sorry!" Tyelkormo exclaimed, and raised his hands, as if to shield himself. "Not sorry I slapped you," he added with a gnomish grin, "but sorry I coloured your pretty face. Truly. Sincerely."

Curufinwë considered that, imagining how it would feel if his heart felt a little lighter; and he laughed.

"Forget it," he waved his hand. "Just… let's forget it. It's not like it will hurt my dignity, either way. I don't have much left."

"Curvo…"

"I mean it," Curufinwë said (his lungs still dutifully producing those laughing sounds) and held his brother's hand. "I daresay this dinner will be quite interesting. But will you do just one thing for me, Tyelko?"

"Anything," came the answer.

"Let us keep in secret how this happened," Curufinwë's stern will drew a wide, impish grin on his face. "We won't tell anyone. Never. Let's always remain very grave, theatrical and mysterious about it."

"Let's," Tyelkormo echoed happily.

"With time, even _we_ will forget what truly happened, and the impossible pieces of fiction floating around shall take the place of true memories in our heads. And thus, your punch-mark on my face shall become myth and legend."

"As my lord brother pleases," Tyelkormo grinned.

 _I am no lord,_ Curufinwë thought as he constrained the muscles in his face into a warm, sincere smile, and kissed his brother on the cheek. _And you cannot please me_.

**(To Be Continued)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes
> 
> * The starting quote is originally from the film 'Cool Hand Luke', but the Guns n' Roses song 'Civil War' made it much more famous.
> 
> Maril [m. glass / crystal], who is an apprentice here, made several appearances in my other works (no longer published), so some of you may remember him.
> 
> To be honest, this chapter barely escaped my cut, being strictly what you would call an "episode": it doesn't advance the plot by an inch. However, I decided to include it so you would fully understand Curufin's bizarre state of mind and his later actions… and, frankly, I'm publishing this chapter because I really LOVE this character and the challenge he means to me. I'm excited to see if I manage to get my characterization across, because I feel that what I'm trying to express here is well beyond my grasp…
> 
> Thank you, all of you so much for your continued support and your comments!


	20. The Evening Play

" _There we were - demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance - and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened. Don't you see?! We're actors - we're the opposite of people!"_

_/ Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead /_

* * *

**XX. The Evening Play**

All echoes of murmur ceased in the Great Hall when Lord Maedhros, Protector of Himlad, Warden of the East and Enemy of the Enemy rose to his feet, his sharp commanding glance measuring everything, from the tiniest movement to the softest intake of breath. He glimpsed several old friends in the pale sea of faces below, but gave no sign of recognition. The Warden of the East was more like a marble statue than a living person; and he seldom smiled, for it was seldom his duty to smile.

Maedhros waited a few moments for the silence to deepen, to fill the entire building from floor to ceiling. Then, he pushed his chair lightly in the table, his fingers tightening around his diamond-wrought chalice: one of the scarce things that remained from his father's heritage. The Warden of the East took a liking to that chalice, and used it only on special occasions. _(Maedhros_ , as far as he was concerned, found it artsy, heavy, and entirely useless, since it was designed in such a way that half a precious mouthful of wine always rested at its bottom, and it was terribly frustrating to have it poured out within the boundaries of polite dining).

However, no more than the sight of the jewel-bedight goblet was enough to raise spirits in the hall. _Something important is happening_ , it implied: a mute answer to hundreds of unasked questions.

And answers were long overdue.

Despite all Maedhros's efforts, rumours spread like wildfire behind the thick walls of the Himring, and – as far as he knew – the few morsels of valid information that managed to escape his council chamber had evolved into heroic, if not very believable tales. A pair of scouts claimed with sincere conviction that Lord Tyelkormo – _but he is no longer a lord,_ some _other_ scouts whispered -, battled a Valarauko out in the wastelands, and it was the whip of that beast that wounded the Lord Makalaurë's arms and back - which, according to certain sources, had been cut and whipped in the shape of a dragon. Others claimed that they saw Master Curufinwë forge swords that could be held into fire, only to catch it like oil-dampened wood and burn with a vicious red flame (Maedhros intended to ask him about that one). And there were voices, of course, that whispered news about a stolen Silmaril, and Thingol's daughter who broke into the Enemy's fortress, aided by none other than her lover, a mortal Man from the House of Barahir; and Huan the Hound, who had been following Lord Tyelkormo's _(no longer a lord!)_ horse for centuries. Maedhros could almost hear those voices whispering, _Lo! The princess of the Moriquendi dared a deed our Lords did not. A Jewel is missing from the Enemy's crown, and it is in Doriath. What will our Warden do?_

 _Your Warden will protect you,_ Maedhros thought, and for a heartbeat, his pale eyes were on fire. _For there are still two Jewels wrought within that crown; and Moringotto sleeps no longer._

 _The lord who tries silencing rumours by force can shake hands with the lord who dies in the effort of putting a dike in front of the Sea,_ his counsellor had once told him. _'Tis like one of those tiring games your Haru played with you in Valinórë, and you tried in vain to guess the point, only to realize that the point was non-existent._

 _They were simple paradoxes,_ Maedhros heard himself responding. _Mazes with a narrow way in, and no way out._

Gazing around in the crowded Hall, he felt slightly uncomfortable without Tyelcano's well-known figure on his side; his chair the first from the right, always clad in blue or black, silent and sincere, keen and resourceful, solving every situation with quiet, ruthless grace. The Counsellor had become the head of his household, solid and permanent as if wrought within the very walls of the fortress. Maedhros barely noticed him anymore, because he was _always_ _there,_ everywhere and anywhere he was needed; solemn, chivalrous and ready to serve. Now, his absence all but annoyed him. He had all his brothers, his captains and his bannermen assembled in the same Hall, along with potential allies. If anyone, then the Counsellor could surely prevent disaster from striking... but could _he?_

He had no choice but to find out.

"Let us all greet our noble guests, dear friends of mine," The Warden of the East said imperiously, taking a few lithe steps down the stairs that separated the high table from the smaller ones, chalice still in hand. The folds of his lustrous red-and-golden cloak hid tactfully the stump where his right hand should have been, and the words of the Sindarin tongue sprang fair and free from his lips. "My lord brothers all rode fast and far so they could feast with us tonight. I must say that my heart is glad to see my family gathered anew after all the long and perilous years that passed… May this feast bring joy and satiety to you all! You, who guard these walls and fill these halls at all times, be they good or evil - raise your cups now to Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod and Amras from the House of Fëanáro – then fill them again and raise them for your own sake! People of my halls, rejoice!"

A wave of joyful cheering washed down the old, thick castle walls and a hundred cups gleamed golden in the light of torches. Maedhros raised his chalice well above his head before he proceeded to drink: a spectacle he remembered both Atar and Haru doing.

The wine tasted at once sweet and sour. Once he swallowed it, he felt some rich smack lurking at the end of his tongue, suggesting that the vintage was very old.

All cups were emptied as the Sons of Fëanor delivered their speeches one by one in flowing Sindarin, greeting their eldest brother, and thanking him for his hospitality as courtesy ordained. Their speeches were smooth and uncharacteristically moderated, although Maglor repeatedly included Quenya words, forgetting their Sindarin counterparts; and Curufin was adamant at using the archaic pronunciation of the _'s'_ sound, which made his speech sound like lisping. And _then,_ finally it was time for the youngest to rise to speak.

"I thank you all for your kind greetings, brave friends and noble brother," Amrod said, descending with slow steps at the opposite side of the table, not reaching the level where Maedhros stood to mask their difference of height. "I am most glad to be back behind the walls that withstood the Flames of the Enemy. You assembled here are all dear to my heart, be you a sergeant of mine or of any of my brothers'. Yet alas! There are many Elves and Men, many brave and noble souls who cannot be here with us tonight; either because they have been killed by the Enemy's servants or because they stand watch over us, protecting us from the rogues and scattered Orc-bands that run all around Beleriand. These brave soldiers, these noble guardians are the only, thin wall standing between us and Moringotto's utmost will: the destruction of our lands and fortresses, and chaos among our people. Let us raise our cups for our comrades and guardians!"

" _Rejoice!"_ The cry went up all around the tables, and Maedhros bowed his head with the rest of his brothers, thinking of Tyelcano above all.

"And last, but not the least; on the contrary, in utmost importance," Amrod went on, "let us greet the one without whom the Ñoldor's kingdoms would not be more than scattered ruins over empty wastelands, without whom all hope would leave us. Let us all raise our cups one more time and drink to the health of our noble Lord, the Warden of the East, the Protector of our land, the Enemy of our Enemy, and my eldest and wisest brother. All hail the Lord Maedhros, son of Fëanáro, son of Finwë the First King; people of his halls, rejoice!"

"All hail the Lord of Himring!" The attendants of the feast boomed. "All hail the Protector of Himlad! All hail the Warden of the East! All hail the Enemy of the Enemy! All hail our Lord Maedhros! Let us drink to his health!"

When his brothers joined the soul-stirring ovation, Maedhros felt a thin smile escaping his heart and rushing onto the Warden's face. He would have never admitted such a thing, but he loved to hear the praise of his people; mostly because it was scarce, and it came from the depths of their hearts.

"Thank you all for your greetings," Maedhros forced that smile to stay on the Warden's face, then emptied his goblet once more (and mutely cursed the last sip of wine that lingered alow). "And now, before we let ourselves enjoy our food and drink, before we fill our plates, before we feast the night away, I demand your attention for a short while."

The complete, utmost silence that settled in the entire Hall within the next heartbeat tickled his sense of humour; nevertheless, he nodded his thanks and handed his cup to a passing servant, shooing him off towards the high table.

"As my brother Amrod has wisely mentioned, Himlad is being raided by Orc bands, who have gone as far as to lay hands upon my own brothers, Maglor, Celegorm and Curufin..."

Maedhros raised his hand to silence the uproar that followed his words.

"…who have successfully met their assault, and chased them off to the North. Your brothers-in-arms are currently pursuing them, yet there are more coming. Many more. More than you might think and more than we can handle alone; and this disaster did not only strike in Himlad. If you look around in this Hall, you may see than Men from the East are settled among us. As things are now, they are strangers to you; yet from this day to the end of our days in Beleriand, I shall expect you to treat them with friendship and respect, for they have offered us their swords and axes. They have been chased from their homes and lands by Moringotto – his name be cursed! – their fathers, their mothers, their wives, and their children were killed, their houses burned, their weapons melted, their goods stolen. And in that sense, we are all one in this hall! Let the leaders of these people now rise, and step in front of you, along with my brother Caranthir, Lord of Thargelion, who vouches for their trustworthiness."

"That I do," Caranthir's booming voice emerged from the High Table as he stood, and walked downstairs to reach Maedhros's level. "I have walked a thousand paths with these Men, and befriended them, if I am permitted to say; and I am glad to have them by my side, our side, in times such as these. For the roads of Beleriand are truly becoming dangerous; elsewise, we would have arrived three entire days ago! Yet we were running late; for we've had news that another band of that Orc-filth was crossing our way. I would have felt _inglorious_ had I let them slip away!"

"All hail the Lord Caranthir and his sense of duty!" Maedhros exclaimed in a high-toned voice. It was something the Warden of the East would probably do.

" _Rejoice!"_ the cry went up around the tables, echoing cheerfully.

"And all hail the wine of the Himring!" Caranthir countered when he tasted the dense drink and a hundred cheerful voices echoed his clamour. Then, to Maedhros's surprise, he handed the emerald-wrought chalice straight to a Man who seceded from the crowd and stepped forward, followed by seven others.

"Here, friend," Caranthir said in a lordly tone, "try the best vintage you've ever tasted. This shall warm you up, I have no doubt."

"Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Carnistir," a croaky voice answered in fluent Sindarin – save for the name – the _'r'_ in that name was whirling like an _'r'_ should in the clearest archaic dialect one could imagine. Maedhros watched with keen eyes as the Adan folded back his riding-hood and took the chalice from Caranthir's hands.

The face that emerged from under the black cloth was something like the one he'd expected. It was hard and deeply lined, with swarthy skin that enhanced the Adan's broad features. Even now as he smiled, a dim wild gleam was present in his dark eyes, his lustrous black mop of hair falling recklessly onto his forehead. His beard was short, though, and well-trimmed.

 _This is one fearsome warrior,_ Maedhros decided.

"Brother," Caranthir said in a voice that sounded at the same time broadish and high-toned. "Let me present you Lord Ulfang at first, along with his sons, Uldor, Ulfast and Ulwarth. They and their people have entered my service merely two years ago, and already, they have aided me more than others did in two centuries. I had hoped to give them lands south of Thargelion, but the Orcs chased us until your doorstep: a shame I shall no longer try to swallow. Let them aid you, brother, along with me and every soul assembled under my flag, and we shall help you cleanse your lands of the pent-up dirt!"

"That is long overdue," said the Warden of the East, his voice a lot more majestic than Maedhros felt himself being. "I greet you, Men of the East! Be welcome in my halls and bear my friendship, as long as you bear my brother's."

"And I greet you, Lord of Himring and Warden of the East," Ulfang answered, bowing his head. "I've heard much about you from your people; many tales of your deeds and bravery and many more of your stalwartness against the Enemy. My sword and life are pledged to the Lord Carnistir just as my sons' but one day, if odds dictate that my Lord should fight by your side, our hearts would be glad if we were not to stay behind."

"Your wish may come true sooner than you think," Maedhros said, slightly astonished by such words of courtesy coming from a Man this hard and battle-worn.

"That is good to hear m'lord," the Easterling said. "My people already owe you a debt you cannot imagine, yet we hope to give you a gift in return. My kinsman has decided to offer you his service, and kindly asked me to vouch for him, for he has yet to learn the curious ways of Elven speech."

 _Tongue,_ Maedhros thought absently, _here, you should rather use 'tongue'._

"…my kinsman and his sons are leaders of the tribe that fled across the Blue Mountains, hunted by the shadow of the Enemy. Food, shelter and work for their hands they seek; and they are willing to pay for such goods by swearing fealty to you and your House."

"Every hand that bears a weapon is most welcome," said the Warden of the East gracefully, although the Elf within found the notion of _swearing_ slightly repulsive. "Let your kinsman step forth, for I would like to see his face and hear his name."

Ulfang bowed before him, and said a few harsh, shrill words he did not understand. A Man's shadowy figure stepped forth from behind Ulfang's three sons, followed closely by three of his own. His skin was darker than olive, his beard long and his features broad and mannish, much like those of the others. His deep dark eyes were wide open, filled with fear, admiration, and some other emotion Maedhros could not quite discern. The Man withstood his gaze for less than a second, then he fell to his knees before his feet, and dropped his head. His sons stood like mute statues above him, their heads bowed, their arms tense. The Man then spoke a few sentences in his funny tongue; jarred and overwhelmed, his voice trembled in a way that was close to sobbing, yet it was still one of the proudest, most dignified orations Maedhros has ever heard. He glanced at Ulfang, who came to his rescue as soon as the other Adan fell silent.

"My kinsman is grateful that he could kneel before you tonight, m'lord," Ulfang said, voice upraised so his words would be heard in the entire Hall. "He has long wished to see the Enemy of the Enemy whose hair is red as flame and whose wrath is feared by many servants of the Darkness. He says that you are the only hope for his people, and he begs you to let him enter your service and dwell in your lands. He is offering his sword and life to you, Lord Warden."

The Warden of the East nodded, and let the approving murmur of his people trail off.

" _Orya!"_ he said, and leant down to touch the Adan's chin lightly. He spoke in his own tongue, as he knew that it had a strange power over mortals; and he was right, for the Man raised his head, the joy of being accepted setting in his eyes. He stood.

"What is your name?" Maedhros asked him, switching back to Sindarin. He saw a flicker of recognition sparkling in the dark orbs, and he thought the Adan understood, but in the next moment, he shook his head.

"No," he said grudgingly, when only silence answered him. "No name. You give me name."

" _You want me to name you…?"_ For a split second, the Warden of the East was forgotten, and Maedhros stared at the Man in wonder. Naming was a very intimate thing…

"This Man and his tribe have lost everything they had, brother," came Caranthir's voice from the left. "Their homes, their wealth, most of their families… when Ulfang and his sons laid their swords before my feet, they asked me to give them names as well, and I chose to give them back their old names, the ones they had forsaken when Moringotto destroyed their lives. I said I would help them avenge their loss, so they would feel worthy of their own names again; but the Adan who stands before you is proud and stubborn; and he shall not wear his old name again, for he considers it dead. He has chosen you as his lord and commander, and it shall be up to you to name him after the deeds he will do in your service."

 _I cannot have nameless soldiers!_ Maedhros thought _. I am not Moringotto…_

The Warden of the East drew a deep breath, knowing that all eyes were on him in the Hall. And suddenly, he knew what to do.

" _Bór,"_ He declared, his voice deep, his eyes grave, and he touched the side of the Adan's face lightly. "Bór I shall name you, and that name is a promise. I want your sons and grandsons, and your people to remember you as the one who stood, and never wavered. You shall remain by my side in battles and trials to come. I want the Enemy – his name be cursed! – and his servants to cry Bór's name in anguish and fear. Come now, son of Men, and draw your sword so the torches may light it!"

Half of Ulfang's throaty translation was stifled by the ringing cheers of the audience, but Maedhros paid no heed to that. His eyes were on the Adan's – _Bór's_ – face, radiating with heat and emotion. Something akin with wonder and gratitude lit up in the dark eyes, and he finally dared to properly look at Maedhros. He could only guess what the Man saw – a noble face with hard outlines, a forest of auburn hair, a graceful jawline and a pair of stormy grey eyes, still hideously beautiful and unblemished, burning with a distant white flame; thin, light cicatrices running down at the sides of his neck: whip-marks, cuts and other blemishes, all vanishing, all faint, vacant ghosts of pain… No other than Findekáno and his healers knew how they ran all through his body, up and down and across and around…

Yet, the Warden of the East had a beautiful face; white as marble. Cold as marble.

_Dead as marble._

"All hail the Men of the East!" Cried a voice at the high table.

" _Rejoice!"_ The clamour went up once again, and it was echoed ten times as Bór of the East swore fealty to the House of Fëanor and the Easterlings were seated among Himlad's best captains.

Maedhros hoped that the cries were loud enough to stuff his people's ears and heads, so they would forget about all the strange rumours buzzing around.

For one evening, at least.

~ § ~

When they arrived back at the dais, Caranthir took his place casually between Amrod and Amras. Maedhros settled at the head of the table, and had his chalice refilled.

"It is good to have you all gathered around my table," he said, with the lightest smile he could suddenly produce. "Too many things have happened since we last met in council."

"Too many indeed," Curufin answered him, playing absentmindedly with his spoon, while food was served; then he suddenly raised his eyes, and Maedhros was surprised to see mirth in them. _"Bór,_ Nelyo? Seriously? You could have at least given him a mazy name… for educational purposes…"

Maedhros let the adequate grin spread on his face; only then did he notice that there was something curious about Curufin's countenance. And he was not the only one to see it…

"Now-now, brother," Caranthir snickered, "who punched you so properly and deservedly in the face? I shall give them a medal."

Celegorm and Curufin exchanged a mysterious glance.

"Consider it a battle scar," said Celegorm very seriously.

"A most unfortunate incident," Curufin nodded.

"…shared only with the worthy few."

"I shall let my worth be otherwise defined," Maedhros broke in, though he was terribly curious. "What do you make of these Easterlings?"

"As our Lord Warden has wisely said, _every hand that bears a weapon is most welcome,"_ Celegorm recited. His eyes were sparkling, and Maedhros supposed he had been in his cups. "Or did it go the other way around? _Every weapon that bears a hand…"_

"They _are_ very different from us, there is no doubt," came Maglor's solemn, though slightly emotional voice from across the table, "but they impressed me, in a way, or so I feel."

"I am getting fond of them," Caranthir declared. "They are witty, and fierce on the battlefield. Some of them learned quickly to present our courtesies, even if their true nature is much cruder... And Ulfang has a startling but deeply amusing sense of humour."

"I can imagine," Curufin snorted. "He seems to be the kind of fellow who plays puppetry with the skulls of his enemies."

"That is a plaything of Orcs," Maglor stated reproachingly. "He has his manners, or haven't you heard? I wonder when were you granted with an occasion to meet foes of _that_ kind."

"Why, Nargothrond is filled with them," Celegorm shrugged. "Only, they are playing puppetry with words, which gets slightly boring after a time."

"Oh," Maglor countered in a shrill tone, "and is that a comic play? With one puppet calling _'King-slayer!'_ and the other calling _'Traitor!'_?"

 _I should have had that wine watered,_ Maedhros realised.

In happier times, this would have been the moment when Tyelcano came to the rescue – the counsellor had a remarkable talent of switching from cumbrous subjects to pleasant ones. But he was far away now, probably struggling through the thick layer of fog in the wastelands; and before Maedhros could think twice, Curufin's entire countenance froze, and disaster stroke.

"Speaking of Nargothrond," Caranthir raised his thin brows, "I've heard of your wondrous esclandres, sweet brothers. Congratulations in hindsight! Forgive me if my applause was not loud enough to hear a thousand miles apart."

_Oh no. Oh, Valar, no. Not now._

"Do not poke your nose into things you cannot hope to understand," Celegorm growled in a low voice. "We have been betrayed."

"O, damnation!" Caranthir sighed theatrically. " _Betrayed!_ My eyes are watering! You must have been _very deeply hurt_ to be able to _jest_ about all the turmoil you caused! You must horribly regret your malevolence... your ignorance... your stupidity! And I thought that you have been wronged! And I thought that you have been put to danger! And I worried for you...! I have feared for your life you filthy little…! _Pray tell me what happened! Pray tell me why on Arda you thought that high treason was a good idea...!"_

Maedhros opened his mouth to harshly rebuke him but no sound escaped his lips. Valar knew, he did not have any arguments to clash against _that_ reasoning... And as unwise as it seemed, part of him desperately wanted to hear Celegorm's response.

"Shut your mouth, Carnistir!" Curufin hissed. "I will not have you questioning our decisions. I've already had enough of that. I'm coming to regret that I came to this accursed dinner at all."

"Aye, you _should,"_ Maglor suddenly called at him, his voice unusually cool. "For you have no place among us…"

" _K-a-n-o!"_ Maedhros groaned in distress. Manwë above, this was going the worst way possible! He knew Maglor heard him and was aware of him, _he saw it_ – still, his brother adamantly finished his sentence.

"… _and not even among your children!"_

" _Enough!"_ Maedhros half snapped, half gasped. "By the Valar, Kano, do you hear yourself speaking…?!"

But it was too late.

Curufin looked disturbingly like their long-dead father when he rose from the table, chalice still in hand, lustrous black hair flowing restlessly, exuberantly down his shoulders; and his voice was also much like Fëanáro's when he spoke.

"There is not much to be said," he glanced darkly at his brothers, grey eyes fixed finally at Maglor's face. "You speak of my children in vain. I have no son and no daughter."

His chalice banged on the table and half its contents were spilled; the oldest wine of the Himring's cellars was drenching the table-cloth with arborescent lines of blood-red while Curufin took five quick steps down the stairs and disappeared behind the rear door. Celegorm stood as well, turned his back on the high table, and went after him, though his moves seemed somewhat less guarded. There was no shouting, no swearing, nor any kind of loud confrontation but the air seemed to vibrate with tension; and this alone was enough for dead silence to spread in the hall.

Maedhros chose to ignore it all and had his cup filled for the eighteenth time, if he counted it correctly. After a few more seconds of sullen silence, Amras took a hesitant mouthful of food and Caranthir pushed his chair closer to the table. Slowly, they went on feasting as if nothing had happened; and all the rest of the hall willingly joined the theatre.

A few tormenting minutes passed.

"One day," Amrod suddenly spoke up, his voice strangely distant, "we found an Orc-nest under the mountains with Carnistir and the Easterlings. We wandered far south from the lands of the Dwarves – I have never been there before! Telvo and I had chased those Orcs for three days straight… They never seemed to tire, and their dwellings were well hidden. The passages were becoming so narrow under the earth that two soldiers could not march forth shoulder to shoulder, yet I went on with Telvo, Moryo and Ulfang... And there we went, guarding each other's steps; I went forth, and Carnistir followed with Telvo and the Adan at his heels. The paths were silent…"

"Now," Maedhros said, ready to unleash his frustration upon the first possible target, "what _exactly_ do you think you were doing in a narrow passage well under the earth, with no more than a mortal Man to guard you? You are not reckless Elflings anymore! You could have been attacked, or worse, captured!"

"That is not the moral of the story!" Amrod countered with a sigh. "What we found... what we found in those caverns were thralls. Not Elves and not Orcs; something in between. Creatures that could not be healed, not in this Age of the world. In happier times I might have known some of them by the name... Yet we had to kill them. To slaughter them one by one, to chase them as hounds would chase a deer for their master to hunt it down."

"Is this an attempt to help our mood settle?" Maglor snapped.

"No. This is an attempt to make you _listen!"_ Amrod crossed his arms before his chest. "We were _furious_. And we did not understand what was happening. Are thralls not meant to stay in the Dark Lands until their... their _transformation_ is complete? Or if this is what Moringotto wants, why would he not keep them in Angamando? We could not even dream why..."

"Why Moringotto let them stay in such conditions?" Maedhros laughed darkly. "Or why did he hand them out to his Orcs? He did it for you to find them, evidently. For your mere distress, little one. For you to start to wander what kind of hideous sorcery must lurk in Angamando that could be capable of _this;_ as well as for _me_ to remember dark days long gone. To plant fear in our hearts, to let it grow."

"That is _still_ not the moral of the story," said Amrod, and he raised a finger. "We could not even dream why Moringotto let them stay in such a condition, aye. But I think I understand it now, like you do. He did it for the same reason he seeks to plant enmity between us. And you, brothers, are all helping his cause! You, Kano, by insulting Curvo; you, Carnistir, by irritating him; you, Nelyo, by silently letting all of it happen; and you, Telvo, by simply _eating,_ all so naturally, and pretending we don't even exist!"

"Are you seriously reproaching Telvo that he was _eating?!"_ Caranthir rolled his eyes. "Without even mentioning what _Tyelko_ did…?!"

"I should not have mentioned Curvo's children," said Maglor, his face white as a wall. "I know that. But I just… I couldn't just sit there, and suffer these two _jesting_ about what they did, after everything that happened… knowing what they did to us…"

" _Enough."_

There was something in Maedhros's voice that made the air all but freeze around them.

"I am the one who made a mistake tonight," he said, "by thinking you could manage to spend one evening without clawing at each other's throats. From this moment to the end of our feast, I demand _silence._ I don't want to hear your chattering and muttering and hassling and flite."

One by one, his brothers bowed their heads before their elder.

"Kano, Moryo," said Maedhros menacingly, "You shall look for Curvo and apologise. What happened after his and Tyelko's arrival stays between us. _You have no right_ to speak to him in such a way… no matter what. Patience and generosity are the worst kind of punishment you can give him."

"As you wish," Caranthir nodded. Maglor remained silent.

Maedhros looked around. The faces he saw mirrored his own displeasure, hurt and uneasiness. Amrod and Amras were shooting quick glances towards Caranthir who was twiddling his thumbs, his brows furrowed. Maglor, on the other hand, sat still, his thin lips pressed together as if he'd decided not to speak anymore in this Age of the world. Celegorm and Curufin were nowhere to be seen.

Laughter escaped Maedhros's lips; harsh, raspy, bitter laughter. The same laughter that shook his entire body when he saw the stump of his right hand for the first time in the light of day.

" _Nelyo?"_

Maglor was staring at him. He recognised his foul mood, Maedhros knew.

"Raise your cups," he said with a mocking grin, "and hail the Lord of the Ñoldor, the Head of the House of Fëanáro, the Warden of the East and the Enemy of the Enemy! All hail the Lord Maedhros, the Hero of Many Battles – who cannot even keep his brothers in hand!"

"That's not…," Maglor started, but Caranthir dashed his goblet against the table, and cried in his booming voice,

" _Rejoice!"_

And the unsuspecting Hall echoed

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes
> 
> 'Valarauko' is Quenya for 'Balrog'.
> 
> Bór's name means 'faithful', and it was canonically given to him by the Elves – so I thought it would be appropriate if Maedhros himself named him. It was a very conscious decision to make him appear much more cultivated and dependable than Bór and his sons. Don't worry, though, we'll see more of the Easterlings' culture and traditions later.
> 
> 'Atar' stands for 'Father' and 'Haru' for 'Grandfather' in Quenya.
> 
> 'Orya' [m.: 'Rise!'] is an archaic form of Quenya imperative, signalling a very direct command.
> 
> A short note on Amrod & Amras:
> 
> There are two versions of the canon we know: The (published) Silmarillion one, where Amrod is the elder and Amras the younger, and they both survive until the Third Kinslaying; and the Shibboleth one, in which the twins are reversed – Amras being the elder and Amrod the younger –, and Amrod perishes when the ships are burned in Losgar.
> 
> My interpretation is a mashup of the two, since Amrod is the younger, but they both survive the burning of ships.


	21. The Oath Awakens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for your comments, follows, care & support – you readers are truly incredible!
> 
> This chapter has been rewritten around 6 times since 2015, and it exists with four different central characters… in the final version, I decided to focus on 1) structure and 2) tension. This is why you may find that 1) the opening and ending scenes of this chapter are matching (and playing with a previously much discussed dynamic between a certain pair of Fëanoreans…) and 2) that there’s a shift of focalizer “in the middle” – I thought that the findings of Maedhros’s war council would seem much more interesting if they were just randomly thrown at you through the eyes of a character who wasn’t involved. Going through them one by one in an endlessly flowing script would somehow kill the thrill…
> 
> Other than that, I can only say my usual – ENJOY! :) I’m quite OK with saying goodbye to 2017 with this instalment. Stay safe, and Happy New Year to you all! Stay tuned for the adventures of Counsellor Tyelcano in January!

**XXI. The Oath Awakens**

_“We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance in our steads.”_

/ George R. R. Martin’s Tyrion Lannister /

 

**_The Fortress of Himring, FA 467, the last day of Lótessë_ **

“Maitimo,” came a melodious voice from the other side of the half-open door, “I don’t want to bother you with this, but the provision counts…”

“…are ready. Three copies. Come and collect yours.”

“Oh.”

Maglor stole into his room like a stray cat: with cautious, unsure steps, as if he was expecting the floor to crack below his feet. Maedhros leaned back in his chair, and proceeded to read Celegorm’s latest account about his patrols, and the disheartening state of dams over Little Gelion. He was trying to forget how his Counsellor had told him almost twelve years ago to start having them renovated. The dams were the least of his concerns at that time, though – and who could blame him for that? Who could have had the heart to order _constructions,_ with the death-rate of Ñolofinwë still so woundingly fresh and vivid, in this cold, far country where the Northern Wind still carried the whirling ashes of Anfauglith over emptied wastelands…?

_I should have had._

Devoid of clear instructions, Maglor spent a little time finding the adequate scroll of parchment and he lifted it up with a puzzled, dreamy sort of gesture. Maedhros watched him from the corner of his eye, wondering when would he finally leave.

_“Maitimo?”_

He closed his eyes for a moment.

“I could never fathom,” he said, in a tone that sounded far more exhilarated than crude, “how could one address people _questioningly._ You called for my attention. Where is the _question_ in that?”

“Questions are everywhere,” said Maglor in his own quizzical manner. Then he swallowed, as if to push some invisible lump down his throat. “I just wanted to thank you, you know, for allowing me…”

_For allowing you to ride off into a battle and bet your life on the biggest, emptiest gamble I’ve ever thrown? Anytime. Great pleasure._

Maedhros felt the pieces of his lordly mask click together as he made his daily effort to smile.

“If any of us has the right to claim the Gap, ‘tis you, Kano. My heart tells me I’ve made the right choice, however unwise it may seem to send you off with an army of wild Men to meet your fate.”

“I will not disappoint you,” said Maglor, his voice suddenly proud and unwavering.

“I know,” Maedhros lied, the muscles in his face constrained to the verge of being torn. “I expect you in the small council in the eighth hour this evening. Tell your men to be ready to depart at dawn – swiftly and quietly.”

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

The flight of stairs that led up to the Northern Tower was painfully long. Not that Curufinwë was _tired;_ oh, not at all. But the passage – and thus the march – was largely long enough for his dark thoughts to break free from the chains of his shattered self-restraint, and overwhelm his _fëa_. Still, he went on, grinding his teeth, hands tightened into fists; restless, graceful, invincible.

But what for?

 _You shall no longer hold a place in my council, nor shall you be granted with any kind of confidential knowledge,_ Nelyafinwë had said, thunder in his eyes, _the title of lord I take back from you._

And still he had been summoned, with the rest of his brothers, he supposed. The word had reached him, no matter how hard he’d tried to elude it, no matter how many locks he kept on the doors of his workshop. The message was waiting for him placed promptly upon the bench when he entered the smithy, written in his eldest brother’s hand, ridiculously clumsy to any eye who knew not the story behind that snaggle-toothed cursive.

He, Curufinwë was expected in the council room. _Why?_

_Has Nelyo forgotten? Could he be jesting?_

_Nay, and nay._

Curufinwë’s quick stern steps were slowing down, his breath spasmodic as if he'd just run a mile without halting. It was an alien sensation; did he, Curufinwë Atarinke run out of breath after no more than _climbing a tower?_ He, who had no notion of being truly exhausted? Why was his breath speeding up, why was his heart drumming frantically against his ribcage?

 _Breathe._ He could not breathe, as if someone had set his insides on fire; cruel flames were lighting up in his chest, making his limbs go stiff. What was it – anger? Shame? Distress?

He stopped grudgingly, leaning to the wall with his back. Coldness crept up amongst his muscles where the back of his cloak met the hard rock; the thick wool sheathings beneath his garments were no challenge for the creeping coldness of the Himring to penetrate. This corner of the castle seemed seldom used; merely one or two torches were lit in each bend of the staircase, the rest of the holders gaping emptily.

Curufinwë let the sensation of cold overwhelm him. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking several deep breaths, trying to chase away the demons inside his head.

He did not want to see any of his brothers now. Oh Valar, how he loathed to see them.

 _Where are your children?_ Makalaurë’s soft musical voice echoed mercilessly in his head. _Where is Tyelpë? Where is Erenis?_

 _Tyelperinquar is his own master now,_ the ghost of Tyelko's voice clashed sharply against Kano's. _Seek for the answer in your heart, you will find this is true. Why would you be so eager to fight your own fate? Let him go, Curvo. The Oath is enough burden on our shoulders._

Curufinwë ran his fingers through the surface of the hard stone wall, exploring every lump and delve. There was not one finger-hold that escaped his unceasing attention. The stones were to his liking, from an old and deeply solid kind that might have been forged and chiselled long ago by the Great Smith Aulë himself, only to be left behind in Endórë, given over to the black claws of Morgoth.

But the ghosts of the past went on haunting his mind.

 _We shall not lay our hands upon them,_ the echo of Orodreth’s voice said bitterly. _But bread and shelter I shall grant them no more within my realm and there will be little love between Nargothrond and the Sons of Feanor thereafter: this I swear._

 _Let it be so!_ Tyelko had laughed like a madman. And he, Curufinwë – he’d said nothing but smiled.

Why had he smiled? Maybe it was just the irony of it all.

_They called us traitors. But what else could we have done?_

Pressing his thin lips together, he gathered what strength he could and attacked the stairs once more. It was not like he, Curufinwë, son of Fëanáro could allow himself to stay behind while his brothers sat in council – whatever the circumstances. Bridling his legs, he paced on with calm, lithe steps, his chin up, his countenance now a pretence of _graceful_ and _commanding_.

He gathered himself completely by the time he reached the door; his thumb lingered on the handle for a moment, for he could not hear any words spoken from behind. Still, he entered, silent as a shade.

The warmth came unexpected.

A jolly fire was burning in the hearth at the nearest corner; its crackle echoed softly between the cramped walls, coaly nibs of flames lapping the hearth-frames. The entire room was no more than a cave-like hole on the top of the tower, and looked more like an attic than a council-chamber, save for the fact that a big round table stood in the middle (which alone occupied half the space in the room) and his six brothers were surrounding it. Apart from the hearth, the only source of light was the huge golden candle-holder that stood firmly in the middle of the table; its gleam reflected yellowishly upon a heap of unfolded parchments.

The only empty chair was placed right between Makalaurë and Carnistir, and this fact angered Curufinwë. Of course, he would be forced to sit in silence, to act as if nothing had happened all those days ago. He could not show any sign of weakness – _not now_.

“I am glad that you came at length, brother,” Nelyafinwë glanced up to meet his eye.

“Tell me what decisions were made,” said Curufinwë, far less smoothly then intended.

“We did not start the meeting without you present,” His eldest brother replied patiently. “We are to discuss an important matter that concerns all of us. You cannot stay behind, Curvo. Come, and sit.”

Curufinwë took three steps towards the table, then came to an abrupt halt.

“This is unexpected,” he crossed his arms before his chest: a shield of flesh. “It has come to my understanding that my title as Lord of the House of Fëanáro has been taken from me, along with the burden of knowledge and responsibilities. Why would you, any of you suddenly wish to discuss anything of importance with me? Or Tyelkormo? I see him at this table as well, although he’d suffered the same fate as me. Have you changed your mind, lord brother?”

“I did not involve you in the making of my decisions,” said Nelyafinwë without a blink, “yet I have tasks for you, and I thought it would be useful to acquaint you with them. If your wishes extend to no more than sharpening arrows, though, you are very welcome to crawl back into your hole.”

Curufinwë had at least three possible comebacks at the tip of his tongue, but there was something in his brother’s eyes that made him stop; a distant white flame, burning terrible and low. Curufinwë knew that look; it was enough to make him nod, and take three other steps towards the table then sit, escaping both Makalaure’s and Carnistir’s searching glance.

“Good,” said Nelyafinwë. “Now hear me, brothers! We have battles to win and allies to gather if we truly want to cleanse our lands from the pent-up dirt. We have all made our choices, faced our foes, fought our wars; yet there is one mission, one mission above anything and everything we shall ever do, one task that binds us together until our Quest ends and our heritage, our birth-right is safely back in our hands – until then, or until the World ends. This ultimate purpose: the burden of our Oath is above every rule, every law and every judgement ever made. For what is the doom of the Lords of the Ñoldor against the Doom of Mandos itself?”

“So we came to the proverbial dead end, at last,” Makalaurë said, a myriad of emotions puzzling in his soft voice.

Curufinwë looked at him, wondering. Makalaurë had been the last to utter the Oath that bound them endlessly to the fate of their father's Silmarili; Makalaurë, who had never wished to do it and possibly never intended. Makalaurë, who – in Curufinwë's opinion – had always wanted to stay behind. Makalaurë, who tended to overlook or sometimes even forget what they had _sworn_ to do...

“…so we have. And yet, a sparkle of hope has flared up in my heart,” said Nelyafinwë firmly, measuring his brothers’ faces one by one. “A fool's hope, if you wish. We have sworn a terrible Oath and we are bound to it until the end of Arda; or maybe after that. And while there is the smallest chance to fulfil it, we have no choice. Each of you must know this, deep in your hearts, as I do.”

“We do,” said Tyelkormo, his voice distant. “Moringotto has been rused and one of our Atar's Jewels is now missing from his black crown. And alas! it is in Doriath – in the hands of Thingol the Thief.”

“Aye, it is,” Carnistir growled. “And have you and Curvo been just a little less foolish, it could have never got there. Did you even _consider_ the possibility of reclaiming the Silmaril after it had been stolen? Let me answer my own question: of course not. I remember Atar knocking on my head from time to time, asking, _Do you keep a brain in there, Morifinwë?_ I am now asking the same question. You could have aided that Man, or could have feigned to do so. You chould have challenged the son of Barahir to get the Jewel and keep it if he could, encouraging him. Indeed, you did not.”

_“Do you keep a brain in there, Morifinwë?”_

Curufinwë barely raised his voice but his tone and speech were so alike Fëanáro's that each of his brothers gave a start, then glanced upon him with wary eyes.

 _“Indeed, we did not,”_ Curufinwë said, articulating each word thoroughly and precisely. “Our trial has long ended, our choices were made, our deeds discussed, and our punishment received; yet to satisfy your curiosity, Carnistir, hear this. We were convinced – as any of you would have been – that the Quest of the Silmaril was initially doomed to failure. There seemed to be no point in wasting our time on such foolish notions. What would _you_ have done in our stead, brother? Join the party in their folly? You would have been killed before even winning a chance to glimpse the gates of Angamando. Have you not heard what happened to Findaráto and his company? That Man has also been captured and nearly killed; _who could have guessed that Thingol's daughter would go after him with Tyelko's hound in her heels to fight that lickspittle of Moringotto and his bats and werewolves and all the monstrosities that lurk in those dark lands?!_ Had it fell upon me to first tell you the tale, all of you would have deemed it nonsense! As it was! As it _is!_ Search your feelings – how could we have been possibly able to foresee this?!”

“You could have tried to measure their valour better, at least,” Carnistir said. “You could have elaborated a what if-plan. And, most of all, you could have been eluded to be dismissed from Nargothrond for all Ages to come... and all the mess that came with it.”

“We did what we deemed best, as I have already said to Nelyo,” Curufinwë said gravely. “And I answer to no one else. It is not my problem that the power to hammer common sense into heads is now taken from me.”

“If I were to hammer common sense in any head I would not entrust _you_ with it,” Carnistir snapped. “You are far too fierce and proud, Atarinke. And what for?”

“Then teach me, o Champion of Sobriety!” Curufinwë boomed, in his eyes a menacing light. Before he could realise what was he doing, he jumped to his feet, staring down at his older brother with unhidden anger.

 _“Enough!”_ Said Nelyafinwë, his voice splintering down the walls like pieces of gravel crashing down from a cliff on a stormy day. “Carnistir, what our brothers have done is already done, and calling them names will not change the past. Nothing will. Let us be thankful that they have not fallen into a trap of Moringotto, nor were they ambushed by Orcs on their way from Nargothrond and they are here, safe and whole. And Curufinwë – you answer to each and every one of us in this room, just as we do to you, when it comes to any deed related to our Oath. Understood?”

Curufin swallowed his anger. This was justice, and he'd earned it. Still, the humble words seemed to roll up his throat like hot flames of pain,

“Yes, Nelyo. Understood.”

“Good. Now sit back, you two, and let us turn our attention to things of importance. Unless anyone protests…?”

There was a long silence. The sound of heavy rain washed down from the roof and the flames in the hearth were growing down, crackling angrily as a few straggling water-drops wormed their way amongst them from some hidden breach in the walls. Then Nelyafinwë stood up, pacing soundlessly in the room for a minute or so. Curufinwë watched the dim light dancing around in his auburn hair, his long thin brows, his stern jawline, and those thin lips that seldom smiled, but when they did, they changed the entire face.

“As I was saying,” his eldest brother spoke up genially after a time, as if nothing had happened, “I believe we have some hope now to stand against Moringotto. My heart feels alive again; if an Elven maiden and a mortal Man could indeed manage to steal into the Enemy's fortress, so can we. Yet we are no thieves, brothers of mine, as were this Man and his mistress; nor could we ever hope to get through the Iron Gates unnoticed. The borders of the Enemy's lands will be fortified now, and watched thrice as carefully as they were before. There is no more hope in playing hide-and-seek with Moringotto.”

“Then what would you have us do?” Tyelkormo gazed up to meet Nelyafinwë's eyes. “Gather an army and go to Angamando to bang on his doors with a thousand lances?”

“Now _there_ is an idea worthy of our King,” Nelyafinwë said, eyes lighting up in amusement. “Nay, Tyelko; all I hope to do – for now – is to bring back _order_ to these lands. Beleriand shall no longer be a playground of Orcs and other monsters; for Beleriand is the rightful property of the Free People, be they Quendi, Atani or Casari; and the Free People shall defend it. Together.”

“We’re gathering allies,” Curufinwë heard himself saying. _“You’re_ gathering allies,” he corrected himself with a snarl.

“Aye,” Nelyafinwë closed his eyes for a moment. “I have a task for each of you, after your merits, and I shall trust you with those. I shall expect them to be carried out by the time I come back.”

“You are leaving!” Curufinwë exclaimed. His bitterness was suddenly forgotten, and all he felt was the terrible, _terrible_ lack of balance; something akin with dread. “But Nelyo, _you can’t leave…”_

“I am going on a diplomatic mission,” said Nelyafinwë coolly. “So does Káno, albeit a more violent one. And so do Pityo and Telvo.”

“Albeit an entirely pointless one,” Carnistir barked.

_“Silence.”_

_What,_ Curufinwë wanted to ask, then realised that he would probably get no answer to his question. He wished to spare himself the shame of being defied.

“Tyelkormo,” Nelyafinwë’s voice rang proud and shrill, “you shall be the commander of the scouts until my return, and Captain Tulcestelmo is remanded to his post in the castle-watch. I know that you are fond of hunting, brother, and I am sorry that the only amusement I can offer is a hunt for Orcs.”

“Better have a lowly amusement than no amusement at all,” said Tyelkormo truthfully. “And I am glad to be of any help.”

His voice was calm, almost indifferent and his face unreadable, yet Curufinwë sensed the tension within him.

_He knows nothing, either._

This was the first time he truly understood what their punishment meant; that they were deprived of trust and honour, yet were treated with honour all the same.

“Curufinwë,” said his eldest brother, and he dared not look away as their eyes met, “my task for you is sole and simple: I want you to finish what you’ve started. I need craftsmen; smiths, apprentices, eager hands. I want you to teach anybody who is willing to learn, and to pass on as much of your craft as possible. You have all my workshops, my iron and silver and gold and my tools.”

“You will not be disappointed,” said Curufinwë, but he could not grasp the meaning of his own words.

“Good. And now, there is one more thing to discuss…”

The sentence wasn’t immediately finished. Nelyafinwë studied their faces one by one, and Curufinwë had to hold himself from flinching and looking away when that stern, penetrating gaze proceeded to read his heart.

 “…do you want the Oath fulfilled?”

_Do we want – what?_

“What is the meaning of this?!” Carnistir snapped. “We do – Valar, of course we do!”

“And why do you want it fulfilled?”

Everyone stared at Nelyafinwë at this question. Why. _Why?_

“There is no such thing as why, Nelyo,” Makalaurë finally said. “We have no choice. We fall to the Darkness, if we don't...”

“Then that is why you want it fulfilled. To save your own wretched skin,” Their elder’s eyes were suddenly afire. “And what if I told you that it made no difference? That the Valar were never to pardon us, no matter what we would do? We could do as some of you would, we could take up arms, march against Doriath, and slay those of our own kin again... Is this truly your choice, brothers of mine? Strife and peril? Are we no more than common thieves and murderers? I believe I am – and _I have had enough!_ I shall not spare the lives of the Moriquendi because I seek absolution – I shall spare them because I am a Lord of the Ñoldor and not some Orc-chieftain. Our Enemy is not Thingol; it is _Moringotto_ and he still has two of our Atar’s Jewels. That disgusting monster killed our Grandsire and he robbed us; then he had our sire killed… Then he captured me, enslaved me, disgraced me, tortured me; and how many times since then has he charged at us with all his power and wrath…! _Are you truly foolish enough to think that he shall ever stop?_ For as long as we draw breath he shall be after us, ever seeking our death and ruin! Moringotto would be pleased above all if we attacked Doriath, for he would know we could never find pleasure in our victory, even if we would happen to win. And, how could we? No one would come to the aid of traitors and kinslayers. _Murderers!_ How could you wish to stoop so low? I see it in your eyes – I see it; I see you would all choose the road you deem easier. But I shall not – hear me, _I shall not attack Doriath._ No more kinslaying. Never again. _I have had enough.”_

No more than a flicker of that voice would have been enough for any soul to understand that Menegroth was not to be attacked; not while the Lord of Himring drew breath.

“And now hear me thee, sons of Fëanáro!” Nelyafinwë went on, with such a power in his voice that seemed to put Curufinwë’s own to shame. “Cruel is the choice that lies in front of us. We have sworn to get the Silmarili back and we have not sworn it lightly. It would be foolish to think that our Oath could by any means be neglected or delayed. You say that we cannot fight Moringotto with the strength of arms we have – but do you think, _do you truly think that we are the only ones to hate the Black Foe?_ That we are his only enemies? Others loath him too, others have also suffered his torments and monstrosities. You have heard the Men of the East, their wishes and their complaints. They hate the Enemy with fervency, and they would do anything to brighten their families’ lives – and the same is true for all the Free Ones! Every single soul in Beleriand curses the name of Moringotto, people shake their fists and grind their teeth when they hear it! Tales spread to every corner of these lands and if we gather our army while the flames of hope are still high in all hearts, we may gain the power that we desire, and the aid of the High King himself with it.”

“But not under our banners, Nelyo,” Makalaurë said softly, sadly. “You shan't abide any more kinslaying, you say – but we have already committed this sin. All of us. No one shall pardon it. It makes no difference...”

“Yes, it does,” Nelyafinwë held his head high, so the gleam of lustrous red hair that ran down his shoulders and his back danced around, mirroring the flames in the hearth. “It does – for _I_ want our Oath fulfilled, and fulfilled swiftly so it could cause no more harm. Absolution I shall seek no more; but I believe, _I must believe_ that if our cause is _good_ we shall get the aid we desire. For too long we have stayed in the shadows, not seeing further than our own fear and self-loathing. Imagine we've never swore that terrible Oath – even in that case, we would want to avenge our sire and grandsire and those hundreds, thousands of kinsmen and kinswoman we have lost by Moringotto's evil scheming. The Noldor have lost three Kings to Moringotto. The fourth one we shan't give to him – this must stop! The first Men and many of our kin, the Avari have been enslaved and disgraced by Moringotto's servants – this must stop! Those of Doriath and Nargothrond have long suffered from his dark thoughts and malice – this must as well stop! Even the Casari have felt his wrath in their halls and caves and forges. Even _they_ hate him and curse his name. We are all friends and allies in this one cause – all the people of Beleriand. We must stop Moringotto while we can! And I believe we can. All the force we have in these lands – all the weapons joined, all hands raised against the same Enemy, all voices crying death to the Black Foe and his servants... _it has to be enough._ My heart is weary not only for our own days to come, but for all the world we live in. We cannot let this Evil grow any further. We must stop the course of his plans – if we do not, no one shall.”

“This is all well, my lord brother,” Carnistir sighed, “but you cannot be fool enough to think Thingol or Orodreth would ever help us. And without them, we're doomed to failure.”

“Maybe not,” said Nelyafinwë with a wild smile. “Maybe not,” he repeated, much more softly; then his eyes inflamed again. “Whatever happens, I want you all to remember who we are, who we once were. We are noble lords of a noble people and I shan't let dark deeds of long ago doom our hearts.”

“The doom lies within us,” Makalaurë said. “We cannot escape it, Nelyo.”

“We shan’t escape it,” Nelyafinwë answered him. “We shall smite it.”

He towered above them all; tall, stern, and kingly. Curufinwë felt a sudden a wave of pride, devotion and enthusiasm wash over him as he looked upon their eldest.

_This is the big brother we've greatly missed. This is Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro, Lord of the Ñoldor and Warden of the East; the Enemy of the Enemy._

“What would you have us do, then?” Makalaurë asked.

“I want you to be my first and most loyal allies,” Nelyafinwë said. “And you too, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë; for our faiths are all bound within our Oath. Never fail me, my brothers. Never fail our sire’s and grandsire’s name and their memory. Cast away all kind of strife and hatred you have; divided, we shall never defeat our Enemy. I need your composure and clairvoyance, Kano; your wits and ardour, Tyelko; your fairness and prowess, Moryo; your cunningness and crafty hands, Curvo; your clear sight and loyalty, Pityo; and your frankness, yet kindliness, Telvo. I need all these.”

“You shall have them,” Tyelkormo sighed, “but now – heed my warning, for ‘tis not something that happens every day – I agree with Moryo. It seems impossible to me that Thingol and Orodreth would ever come to our aid.”

“I do not blame you for not being able to trust them,” Nelyafinwë answered him softly. “Yet if you cannot, trust _me,_ brother. Trust my plans and decisions.”

For a few moments, they all were utterly, gravely silent.

“And now,” Nelyafinwë said, “after all that has been said, all that we've been pondering, do I have your support against Moringotto and his scheming? Shall you help me gather allies, chase Orcs and keep secrets? Shall you all stand by my side?”

“We shall,” Curufinwë heard himself saying as he stood, and pulled his sword from its scabbard. The blade glittered warmly in the torchlight. “The wrath of the Sons of Fëanáro arises in might, and it is ready to chase Moringotto to the end of this world.”

And the Seven Sons all stood, and the edges of their swords clashed against each other as they promised to stand side by side, for now and always, and face together whatever may come; and thus the Oath of Fëanáro had been awakened, but the flame of its fury was no longer fed by hatred.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

The Regent Lord of Himring found the departing one in the fifth hour of the day.

“Nelyo,” came the ragged whisper through the gap of the stable’s door, “I’ve searched the whole castle for you. I don’t want to bother you with this, but…”

The Warden of the East stayed still as he was, his face half-buried in the welcoming warmth of his favourite destrier’s mane.

“…but?”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Are the provision counts ready, or should I prepare to hang myself?”

Maedhros could not stifle a short laugh. “I have finished them,” he said. “Three copies. It was the biggest battle I’ve fought since the Flames.”

“Right?” His brother took a few hesitant steps towards him. “Nelyo… listen. I’m really honoured by your trust, and thank you, but… I still have very serious doubts about sending Kano off to battle with the Easterlings.”

“It is a question of honour for him,” said Maedhros. “And if I have to leave someone other than Counsellor Tyelco in my seat, I’d rather it be you than Kano – especially with Tyelko and Curvo this close to the fire. Keep an eye on them, Moryo… but let them help you, if they are willing. And be stern.”

“Stern,” Carnistir nodded. “And then… there are the twins…”

“The council meeting took place three days ago, and we have come to an agreement,” Maedhros’s voice rang more mercilessly than intended.

“I know,” Carnistir let out a shuddering breath, and Maedhros suddenly saw a change upon his face; as if he’d suddenly pulled on the same death-mask he wore as Warden of the East. “My heart is full of doubts, but I shan’t give in to them. Pray come back soon. Everything shall be in order… I will not disappoint you.”

Maedhros felt his own lordly mask crack open upon his face; and he smiled from his very heart.

“I know,” he said lightly, and kissed his Regent on the forehead.

Yet then again, he lied; he knew nothing.

He could only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Casari [quenya] is a name for ‘Dwarves’ and the Atani [quenya] for Men.
> 
> Of names: Curufinwë’s POV always uses Quenya names for everyone, as you might have already remarked. Other than that, I often call Caranthir Carnistir in dialogues and other interactions, but there’s no general rule for that.
> 
> The beginning quote is one of my favourite extracts from ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’. You may encounter other ones, too, throughout the story; I know that Mr. Martin is generally against the concept of fan fiction, but I still think he wouldn’t mind using some of his quotes to settle the mood…


	22. A Dead End Awaits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: …we keep telling ourselves that we all make mistakes. Which is very true. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone can get angry and everyone can be disturbed – even Counsellor Tyelcano. That said, please allow me to quote Anakin Skywalker for once: “This is where the fun begins!” ENJOY!

**XXII. A Dead End Awaits**

_“And in vain does the dreamer rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him!”_

(Fyodor Dostoyevsky)

  **~**

_He was wearing his formal robes, and he was wounded. Upon his hauberk yawned three gaping holes: two on the right, one on the left, exposing the cloth above his rapidly beating heart. Such a fault in his armour betrayed a disastrous turn of luck when it came to the Valar’s favours bestowed upon him._

_Vaguely, he remembered being shot, and dragged along the remnants of a river-bank, long dried. He offered no more protestations than a sack of corns, or a deer carcass would have; and that was making him vengeful, as much as he could tell. This was a dream, after all, and emotions, impressions, convictions in dreams were unstable, ephemeral. They came and went, they materialised with the speed of thought, only to disappear a heartbeat later._

_One boot was missing from his feet, he realised with a sudden pang of anger. This new emotion was sharp, and it cleared his mind like a breeze of fresh air. Here and there, his bare foot grazed along big, rounded stones among the messy undergrowth, as if his captors were following some long-forsaken path._

_Blood was drippling down his chin, scarcely but steadily: red tears of helplessness. It was probably coming from his nose, but he felt no pain. All he felt was numbness, and the disturbing weight of air on his heaving chest._

_His head was pounding._

_He was losing too much blood._

_He screamed a name, any and every name that came to his mind, pleading for help and salvation; yet no answer came. He grabbed the hilt of a weapon in his belt; its length was unfamiliar. He could not remember owning a dagger like that._

_…yes… yes, he could, after all, now that he thought of it. It was the dagger Curufinwë gave him; bright and sharp and defiantly beautiful. Deadly._

_Crows were gathering around him, watching him with hungry eyes, waiting for his last breath so they could have their feast. Their screams were raspy, and they chilled him to the bone._

_Steps were coming, closing in, and he knew it would soon be over. All over._

_And the Voice would call…_

Yet this time, it did not; and he woke with a low cry, drenched in sweat.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

**_Dimbar, North-West of the Brithiach, FA 467, the last day of Lótessë_ **

“Not much vegetation,” Counsellor Tyelcano muttered, and made a few notes on shattered parchment. “Dim, foggy even with the Gates of Summer approaching, and even greyer than it used to be. Nothing to eat, save perhaps the frogs.”

He made a new mark with his thin carbon-stick, and shifted the parchment a little, looking for possible mistakes. The northern half of Beleriand was traced out splendidly before his eyes, all even and precise, all measured out in a one to five miles-scale: mountain-lines, hills, plains, rivers, routes fortresses... still, something was amiss. Tyelcano had carefully counted every single mile between the Himring and Tol Sirion, where he was supposed to meet the High King, but either there was an error in his calculations (and the Counsellor, despite his general humble manners, excluded that possibility) or there was a large uncharted area between the dreadful Nan Dungortheb and the northern riverlands.

“Senge!” Tyelcano called, and when the target of his attention turned around, bowed, and asked how could he be of assistance, he made a brief inviting gesture towards the rock he was leaning on while he worked.

“Come, my friend,” he said casually, “and tell me everything you know of those mountains over there.”

Senge, who had spent years as a messenger of Lord Maedhros before he joined the scouts (his departure being the first obvious sign of the true seriousness of the lord's need for warriors) sat down beside the Counsellor, and stared at that makeshift table of a rock for a few moments before answering.

“Those are the peaks of the Crissaegrim, m’lord. It is said that King Thorondor's folk live among the mountains, and their vigilance guards or restrains those who travel along the Sirion. But the Orcs are becoming numerous in these lands, and the Eagles show themselves less and less. I have never journeyed through those mountains, and nor had anyone else I know; the roads are narrow and dangerous, and the passes are covered in snow even at Midsummer.”

Tyelcano stared at the massive walls of icy rock in the distance, miles above the whole world, graceful, invincible.

“Yes, well, and what is _past_ those mountains?”

“More mountains, m’lord,” Senge said readily. “Walls of ice, snow and impenetrable rock. Lands of eternal winter, as I have heard. No Elf had ever set foot there; 'tis mayhap only the Eagles who know a way across the Fangs – for so they are called in the kingdom of Hithlum. And past all that, there are the once safe and fertile lands of Dorthonion. Then, north of _that_ – you need not draw anything on the map you're making for our Lord Warden.”

“It shall not be necessary, either way,” said Tyelcano elegantly. “I have made a mile-count around Angamando in our days of peace; it is a pity, though, that we do not know what is past its gates. Or if those mountains end anywhere. Or if there are any passes, valleys, hills and rivers _past_ that.”

“Why the insatiable hunger for knowledge, lord?” Asked the scout with a little smile. It was the same sort of smile Tyelcano oft received when he finished a particularly long and dry report, or went through the provision counts within two hours.

“Knowledge is the whetstone of wit,” he said without thinking, then cleared his throat. “Provided that one’s mind has any edge that could be sharpened.”

“As you say, m’lord.” Senge nodded his accord, and not a muscle moved in his face as he went about his business.

~ § ~

Days came and went without any notable incident, and Tyelcano barely counted them. He kept his pragmatic mind on the indispensable: eating, drinking, riding, taking first watch, trying to sleep. Occasionally, he forced himself to have short rests up in the saddle, for peaceful slumber eluded him ever since he’d left the Himring. He saw the same dream every single night now – a dream of wounds, capture, crows, cold and empty wastelands; always fresh, always vivid, always painful, grim, and shockingly believable. The vision seemed to prowl endlessly in the back of his mind, assaulting him as soon as his eyes gazed over, then vanishing when he opened them again, like the warning of a ghastly hand that dissolves in the morning sun.

 _My dreams are trying to tell me something,_ Tyelcano decided, again and again, and every time his iron will pressed against that unuttered truth. He could have sooner broken his own knees than turn back. He was a servant on a mission, the bearer of weighty news, the keeper of unpleasant secrets that had to be passed from one lordly ear to another with the swiftness of an arrow.

 _A poisoned arrow,_ Tyelcano kept telling himself, but that thought was to be shaken off as well. The orders of Lord Maedhros had been precise and explicit; and several millenia of service have taught him to give counsel whenever asked… and follow orders whenever denied.

Relentlessly, he pressed on, taking the lead, giving first watch, riding out to hunt, sending out scouts from their humble company of ten, working on his maps and notes and entries on his insufferable visions.

Time seemed to crawl along with the speed of a sleeping snail; and the road went ever on.

~ § ~

On the fifth day of Nárië, the wind turned, and brought the promise of rain. The mist-laden air hung heavily in the deep valleys where their road ribboned, and there was a soft bristle in the endless sea of grass that reached up their horses’ knees. The Sun hid its golden face behind veils of wreathing mist; nothing moved within eyesight, and the only thing that changed since yestereve was the pattern of clouds.

Cold fingers of morning breeze crept under Tyelcano’s collar as he gently nudged his stallion to the edge of a small cliff to have a look.

“Anything new, Lord Counsellor?” Called young Antalossë.

“The grass-blades have moved some twenty degrees North,” said Tyelcano, very seriously. “And the skies are three shades darker.”

“You’d think that he was joking…” Came the demure voice of Senge from behind.

“He might have been.” Tyelcano gave him a diplomat’s smile: flawless, yet one dancing on the verge of mockery. “I’m a funny old Elf, little one. Especially when sparring. Would you care to try?”

“I’ve grown somewhat too fond of my four limbs, m’lord…” Senge bowed with a slight grin, pondering the possibility. “…but I always like a challenge!”

“Then grab that toothpick of yours, and charge!”

It was all a façade, Tyelcano knew; the playful insults, the barbs and the barely contained mockery they entertained each other with. He and Senge were frequent companions ever since the Flames, when the scout had killed forty Orcs in a single, heated assault to open the gates before Lord Maglor’s fleeing soldiers. Then, he even found in himself the audacious heroism to tousle the lord out of the raging battle and into the Himring’s welcoming cool – a deed just as remarkable, as far as the Counsellor was concerned. Senge had always preferred a lance over any and every other weapon the smiths’ minds could convey, which made him a dangerous, and more than a little unpredictable sparring partner.

The two Elves retreated a few steps from the scalloped edge of the cliff, to more solid settling. Dust whirled under Tyelcano’s feet as he prowled around, searching for higher ground, and found none.

“Are you certain you want to run into my _toothpick_ with a single dagger, m’lord?” Senge asked jokingly.

“Oh, I am.” Tyelcano took three short steps, span around, tightened and loosened his legs, then slowly turned back, regaining balance. “This is just what I needed.”

 _Focus._ Curufinwë’s gift slid out of its scabbard and into his welcoming palm, smoothly, flawlessly. Steel merged with flesh as he moved, and the dagger was _part of him_ now, a graceful extension of his own arm. Movements came neatly, naturally, as if he was merely waving his hand around.

 _Wait._ The lance answered the call with a fluid _swoosh_ , and Tyelcano half-saw half-felt Antalossë turning away from the empty view of the wastelands to watch them, beaming with excitement. Capable for certain; but he was still half a child…

_Charge!_

Steel rang on steel, and Tyelcano was finally at peace. In combat, there was nothing but balance and speed and focus: deep and endless _focus_ in the centre of it all; some hidden power within his very core that slept soundly through his daily ordeals, rising only when the immediate danger of an assault loomed above his head. For a few precious minutes, everything was forgotten: his mission, his hopes, his fears, his dreams… some proud, fierce _need_ to disarm his opponent filled his entire being. Gracefully, he danced, closer and closer to Senge, sliding in and out of the spear’s reach, sometimes madly close, sometimes ridiculously far; ever-changing, ever-moving like the clouds, the Moon, and the very shapes in the tapestries of Vairë. And for a fleeting moment, everything was perfect.

Then came the intruder.

At first, it was only a blurred black patch on the left edge of his vision, and his mind barely even acknowledged its existence, following the soft gleam of the spear-head instead, arranging his body into curious constellations. Later, the black patch continued to grow, and later still, it materialised into a large carrion crow. The bird landed sloppily upon a rock, right above his left ear, and watched him, just _watched him_ with eyes of shiny coal.

 _It’s just a crow,_ Tyelcano reminded himself, as he almost missed a blow. _The commonest bird you can imagine. It has nothing to do with you. Focus!_

Then the crow began to caw – as crows normally do, although its voice was somewhat shriller than usual, and terribly familiar.

_Caw._

Tyelcano missed a beat, and only his barest instinct saved him as the spearhead rushed past his right shoulder.

_Caw._

Now he was outright _late,_ his rash counter-strike a means of flight rather than an attack.

_Caw._

Senge was charging at him with a fearsome grin, shouting something like _“You’re slow, Counsellor!”,_ and his own backslash was clumsy and wrath-driven.

_Caw._

_“Begone!”_ Tyelcano bellowed, and with an agile spin, he was out of spear-range once again, and he charged, with all his wrath, onto the creature, with inconceivable speed. He half-hoped, half-wished that the sorry thing would be fast enough to escape him…

The crow let out a last, irrevocable _caw._ Its scream was raspy, and it chilled him to the bone…

…and then it charged as well, right at him, aiming for the eye.

It all happened within a heartbeat. Tyelcano gave a cry of dismay and stooped as low as he could, shielding his face with his arms, momentarily forgetting how his dagger could have pierced through the creature from beak to tail; the crow disappeared in the valley below them with a last, mischievous _caw;_ and Senge slammed into the Counsellor’s crouched figure with his entire weight and buoyancy, still delirious with the verve of fighting. Before Tyelcano could move, or cry out, or take a breath, he was flying off the cliff.

There was a terrible, sickening _crack_ , and his vision blurred.

~ § ~

He heard a faint voice at the edge of the world, at the frontier of his muffled perception.

“Do you think… I mean, he is alive, is he not?”

“Of course he is, you sack of dragon dung. He’s breathing…”

“When do you think he will wake?”

“I don’t know, ‘Lossë. Would you care to be less of a nuisance and look for the General?”

“And what do I tell him? Good day, Lord Gildor! Oh yes, everything is fine, there is a bad storm coming and Senge just killed our Lord Counsellor…”

_“I told you – he’s breathing!”_

“I’m not that easy to kill, young one…” Tyelcano forced himself to speak, although his voice rang far weaker than intended.

 _“Counsellor!”_ Senge’s troubled face filled his previous view of stormy skies. “How are you feeling?”

 “Like a piece of dragon dung,” Tyelcano declared after a moment’s consideration. “What happened?”

“I ran into you… I could not stop… and then you fell off the cliff. Sadly, there was a sharp rock underneath, and… Thankfully, the cliff wasn’t very steep, but everything happened so rapidly…” Senge shook his head, and his voice suddenly switched back to its usual accurate precision. “Well, m’lord, the gist of the situation is the following: you broke your right leg. It is… very ugly. Not the sort of injury you’re supposed to journey with.”

The pain itself materialized while Senge uttered these words, and it was unlike everything Tyelcano had ever experienced. He’d been hit by a Balrog’s whip before, he’d been strangled by an unnamed monster near a silent lake back in the Mountains of Mist, he’d been slammed into a wall by Moringotto’s black hands, he’d wrestled with wolves, he’d been burned by fire, cut with all sorts of blades, pierced through with arrows and he’d even broken bones before… but not like this. Never like this. He’d never experienced anything even close to this sheer, horrendous, stomach-turning _agony._ It felt as if Fëanáro was testing the solidity of a new hammer-set on his shin. And it smelled like blood… it was also wet and warm and so terribly, _terribly_ _exposed_ … a broken bone wasn’t supposed to feel quite like this…

With an enormous effort, Tyelcano propped up his body up on his elbows, and looked down at his legs. He barely even felt how the movement pulled his muscles into an agonized knot; at first, he was too preoccupied with trying not to faint upon the sight itself.

_“Manwë…”_

It was an open fault – so _wide_ open that almost the entire width of his calf-bone was visible. His trouser leg had been cut away above his knee, exposing the entire fissure. It went as far as five, six, _seven_ inches down on his leg. The pale white bone emerged as an island of solitary pain from the raging bloody mess of the wound below.

Tyelcano shut his eyes, nails digging into the sour-smelling ground as he fought nausea, then vertigo, then the hysteria of pain.

_Focus._

“Blast it!” He declared, swiping the moist from his forehead with a trembling fist. “We don’t have time for this right now! _We’re on a mission!”_

“We are delayed.” Senge’s hand was warm upon his back. “We’ll manage, if you sit still and let me tend to that… thing.” After a few moments’ hesitation, he added, “It might hurt.”

~ § ~

The three servants of Himring were waiting side by side for the rest of the afternoon, Tyelcano with his back against the cliff, Senge kneeling in silent vigil beside him and Antalossë pacing back and forth around their makeshift camp: three pairs of gleaming eyes scouring about the silent mountain-ranges. And yet there was still no sign of their companions returning.

“They left before sunrise,” muttered Antalossë. Only the wuthering wind answered him, and a couple of strain water-drops upon their doublets. Tyelcano could not tell if they were the first tears of rain or the last ounces of dew from dawn that got carried away.

“It is past noon,” the young scout went on, quite anxiously.

“…and in a few hours, Anor shall go to sleep and give way to the falling night,” Senge snapped. “Here’s your third piece of unnecessary information.”

“Enough!” Tyelcano raised his hand (even _that_ movement sent an arrow of pain through his shattered body). “Something is moving in that far valley.” He waved Antalossë to the front. “What do you see, young one?”

“…crows,” said the scout; yet as he uttered the word, Tyelcano could see them clearly, too; and a giant flock of them. They emerged from the valley in a cacophony of black patches and ragged screams, only to plunge back down at the next convenient cliff, and settle at its edges neatly, in consort, as if following some twisted dance-card.

_Not again…_

“They won’t stop screaming,” Senge said with sudden uneasiness, and Tyelcano felt a soft _yank_ in the ground as his muscles pulled dead tense. “They are waiting for a battle to end, so they could have their feast.”

“Not today,” said Tyelcano against his better judgement, in his voice a soft tremor. Slowly, he raised his head against the view of Dimbar below his feet; against the graceful line of mountains, with the Crissaegrim to the East and the meandering grey ribbon of Sirion to the West. Silently he stood, for six entire heartbeats, as if struggling to carve the landscape into his very mind and soul until the world’s end. The wind was rising again, lashing up new waves of the silken sea of mountain grass below, weeping as a knight would weep for his fallen lord when no one watches, singing as a maiden would sing where words would fail her.

And their companions’ horses emerged from the valley, one by one, and in great haste. Tyelcano felt his insides shrink as he saw the fierce, determined look in the leader’s eyes.

“Counsellor,” said Gildor Inglorion, General in the army of Hithlum, trusted companion and preferred envoy of King Findekáno (if rumours could be believed). “The results of today’s scouting are somewhat less boring than usual, although more than a little inconvenient. We have come across an Orc band in the wastelands. They have wolves with them, and they must have followed our trail for the last few hours. How in Arda could they pick it up, I cannot fathom…”

When Tyelcano made no answer, Gildor shifted impatiently in the saddle, long fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword.

“Lord Counsellor, with respect, we need to make haste, and find shelter. There are too many of them. I despise the thought of fleeing, but we are _envoys_. We cannot afford to lose lives…”

“That is very clear, General,” said Tyelcano blankly. “However, I am afraid I’m not going anywhere in the near future.”

Gildor’s tactical eye shifted to Senge’s kneeling figure, then Tyelcano’s leg, then the restlessly pacing Antalossë.

 _“What in Moringotto’s seven accursed hells happened here?!”_ He exclaimed.

“I have made the last mistake of my life, as it seems,” Tyelcano allowed himself a quizzical smile. “At least I made it spectacular.”

“I think we would all prefer a spectacular _solution,_ m’lord!” Senge snapped. “Work your wondrous mind!”

Tyelcano did just that, considering every possible course of action with utmost care, arranging and rearranging the pawns on an imaginary chessboard, only to realise that there was nothing he could do. The icy, numbing sensation of helplessness settled upon his chest, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

“How many of them?” He heard himself asking.

“Five-and-fifty Orcs and some twenty wolves that we saw. There might be more lurking in the shade.”

_Five-and-fifty._

Tyelcano took three calming breaths, battling the searing, mind-boggling pain that radiated from his broken leg. _Focus_.

“Blast it,” Senge hissed beside him. “Counsellor, we should get you on a horse. Right now.”

“You tended to my leg yourself,” Tyelcano sighed. “You know there is no way on Arda I could hold myself in a saddle right now.”

_“You must do it!”_

“Senge,” the name, though gently spoken, was a warning. “I can barely move. I would be an illuminated target bouncing before the wolves’ eyes, then I would fall, and lucky as I am today, I’d break my other leg, too. I would only slow you down.”

_There. I said it._

He saw the thought materialising in Senge’s eyes; at first, the scout’s face screamed denial, then anger, then pain, then cold, ruthless resolution.

“No,” Senge declared, raising a finger in menace. “No-no-no. Don’t even _think_ about it.”

“The message should be carried to the High King. You cannot afford to tarry.”

“Yes, lordship, and in case you’d forgotten, _you are the one carrying that message!”_

“I could tell you,” said Tyelcano.

 _No,_ Lord Maedhros’s voice emerged from the depths of his memories, _you could not. No one else can know._

He hung his head, fighting a new wave of pain. All of this felt utterly, terribly wrong.

 _The King should hear the message,_ his _fëa_ tugged on his mind with quiet urgency. _He must!_

_I must go!_

With a defiant flash in his eyes, he folded his left leg softly under himself, then made the slightest, barest motion with the right – and fell right back against the cliff, all but howling in agony. Antalossë caught his arm, trying to help him; and the Counsellor shut his eyes, gritted his teeth, and stood – then fell right back, fresh blood gushing out from the makeshift bondage along his shin.

“No,” Tyelcano whispered, tears of pain engulfing his eyes. “I can’t. _I can’t._ I am so sorry.”

 _You’re a stupid, reckless, irresponsible piece of trash_ , he reminded himself. _And this is going to cost your life. You, Counsellor of Kings, are going to die out of IRRESPONSIBILITY._

This time, the thought did not come as an underhanded jest; suddenly, it became very real, and jarring. Still, he could almost have laughed as he looked at the puzzled faces around him.

“All right,” said Gildor, and drew his sword. “If we cannot go, then we shall fight.”

Tyelcano was almost moved as his nine companions began dismounting their horses and herding them together in the shelter of the cliff. Almost.

“Broken leg or not, I believe I am still in charge here.” His voice was suddenly clear and full of authority.

“We’re _not_ leaving you, Counsellor,” said Antalossë. “We’re a team.”

“Our mission is not to save my life but to _deliver a message!_ And that message, to quote Lord Maedhros himself, is not worth ten lives!”

_Well, that is not exactly what he said._

“Yet _your_ life, Counsellor, is worth another hundred,” Senge said, very sincerely. “And I am quoting the lord as well.”

“I was unaware he ever said that,” Tyelcano raised his head din defiance. “Here you have the proof that he, too, can be wrong at times.”

 _“We’re not leaving you!”_ Nine voices chanted at him in unison.

“Lord Maedhros needs you,” Senge knelt beside him again. He was so close that the tip of his nose almost touched his forehead. “You know that. He would never pardon us if we came back without you… neither would _I_ ever pardon myself, for that matter.”

“All right.” Tyelcano closed his eyes. “All right,” he repeated in a voice of steel, “then we are going to fight, but not out of our minds, and definitely not without a secondary plan.”

“A secondary plan?” Gildor raised his brows.

“Yes, General. And for that reason, you shall ride ahead with young Antalossë here, and another soldier of your choice, and find shelter for tonight. What remains of the Orcs shall be after us all along our route. We should be prepared…”

Gildor’s searching gaze met his, and Tyelcano knew that the other heard and understood the unspoken part of the sentence.

“Yes, lord,” the General said, and made a curt bow. “If next time, you’ll allow me to fight by your side.”

“I shall.”

That said, Gildor was already mounting. Young Antalossë took a half-hearted step towards his steed, then turned around when he heard Tyelcano’s call.

“Must I leave you, Counsellor?” He whispered, discontent.

“Will you defy my order while I have your lord’s seal ring upon my finger?”

“N-no,” the youth stammered, “I did not mean…”

“Good. Then come closer. There is something you need to hear.”

 _No one can know,_ the ghost of Maedhros’s voice protested, but Tyelcano steeled himself against it. It was the right thing to do. It simply _was._

“If anything happens to me,” he breathed into the other’s ear, softer than the lightest breeze, “tell the High King that his warning has been heeded. And… the dreams. Lord Nelyo is seeing them as well. The very same dreams. This is very important. And… they should talk, His Highness and our lord. Soon. Tell him that.”

“I will,” Antalossë whispered, amazed.

“Good. Then take this.” Tyelcano pulled the large ring off his finger and buried it into the cocooning warmth of the youth’s palm. “It should be given to the High King when you see him, as a token of the message’s discrete nature. If you have this ring with you, no other than His Highness himself has the authority to ask you about your mission.”

“I understand, Counsellor…” Antalossë looked at him warily. “But _you_ shall be the one delivering the message.”

“Of course.” Tyelcano graced him with a faint smile. “This is only a measure of security.”

~ § ~

General Gildor choose a stern, tacit youth from among the High King’s envoys as his second companion; he was known by the name Lindír, and even if he was not pleased with the prospect of leaving the others behind, he gave no sign of it. Soon, there was no more reminder of the chosen trio’s presence than the traces of their horses’ hooves in the gathering dust.

Somewhere in the valley, a wolf howled.

“So it begins,” Senge sighed, and finished sharpening the head of his spear.

“Let us hope for a swift ending,” an Elf called Vorondo answered him readily from Tyelcano’s other side, and the Counsellor stifled a smile at his fellow Himring servants and their fierce loyalty. He supposed that it had more to do with their lord’s reputation than his own.

The High King’s three envoys were waiting in one stern line in front of them, with the sole exception of Ohtar of Himring standing in the middle with his arms crossed, longbow hanging from his shoulders.

Soon, they could all hear the clutter of makeshift armour and the fierce cries, the bawdy farrago of approaching Orcs. No one moved; his companions stood vigil around him, and Tyelcano knew they would all sacrifice their lives without a second thought to save his.

Suddenly, he understood, or thought he understood Lord Maedhros’s sometimes die-hard efforts to spare his soldiers’ lives.

“I will never forget what you did for me today, my friends,” he said softly.

“It is only our duty,” Vorondo answered him, but his fierce tone suggested that the task was carried out quite willingly. “And we shall do more before this day ends.”

~ § ~

The pounding in the Counsellor’s leg was getting worse, and it soon extended to his whole body.

The first moments of the battle had immediately crystallized in his mind, frozen to boundless eternity; the way the reeking Orc-heads popped up from the cleft of the valley, the way they hawked and rattled and howled and chattered in laughter when they saw his injury, and that his companions were ready to defend him. Seven Elves they had seen in the wastelands and seven Elves they had found upon seeking; and they would not ask them any questions, nor did they seem to suspect that there were more hidden in the colourless landscape. Tyelcano hoped with fervency that General Gildor was sensible enough to have sought shelter high up in the hills.

The Orcs charged at them, then the wolves as well, but the cliff-wall was belled out, and it sheltered them from their assaults for a time. There was a colourful, raging jungle of blood and gore and screams and shouts and swearwords; then Ohtar’s dead body slammed into his wounded leg with its full weight, and he fainted, battling the pain with utmost effort, but without any result at all.

When he regained consciousness, he was horrified to see no more than Senge and Vorondo defending him from a scarcer company of Orcs. Heaps of dead bodies lay everywhere, and the smell of death and fast decay was so strong his stomach protested.

 _I must fight,_ he willed himself into moving. _I must help them_. _It is all my fault. I must protect them._

_I have a message to deliver!_

Fury tripled his strength as he propped himself up on one elbow, then a shaking knee. With one swift push, he liberated his broken leg from Ohtar’s pressing weight, choked out a bunch of Valarin swearwords he did not even know he remembered, and pulled his dagger. He would fight – sitting, if he had to.

An arrow pierced through his right side in a flash of searing pain, and he wavered. The next shot came at once, and he wasn’t swift enough to lean out of range. This time, the pain was almost familiar.

 _Dim-witted brutes,_ he thought. _You should aim for the heart if you want to kill._

The third arrow did just that; but it missed target as Vorondo yanked the Counsellor back under the cliff’s half-shelter.

“What in Manwë’s holy name are you doing?! Stay down!”

“I wanted to…”

_“Stay – down!”_

Vorondo’s breath caught in his throat with an audible hiss, and his face contorted for a moment. Tyelcano’s eyes widened as he felt a stream of blood cover his chest.

“Voro… you have been shot.”

Vorondo struggled to his knees, a haze of pain covering his eyes.

“You have always been… very perceptive.”

“Voro…” Tyelcano felt a lump in his throat, but he steeled his voice. “Senge, find that son of a… _shadow_ that’s shooting arrows here!”

“No need,” Vorondo growled, and forced himself back to his feet, the black-feathered arrow poking halfway out of his back. “I shall find them myself.”

With that, he was gone again; and Tyelcano had to fight a new wave of nausea as he looked down his chest, and the last image that reached his darkening vision.

Upon his hauberk yawned three gaping holes: two on the right, one on the left, exposing the cloth above his rapidly beating heart.

~ § ~

When he woke again, he was dragged, roughly, along the remnants of a river-bank, long dried. One boot was missing from his feet; here and there, his bare foot grazed along big, rounded stones among the messy undergrowth, as if his captors were following some long-forsaken path.

_Or was it a lone captor?_

_…was it a captor, at all?_

Blood was drippling down his chin, scarcely but steadily: red tears of helplessness. It was probably coming from his nose, but he felt no pain. All he felt was numbness, and the disturbing weight of air on his heaving chest.

His head was pounding.

He was losing too much blood.

“Voro…” he whispered, weakly.

“Dead,” said Senge’s voice from above him. “Much like everyone else. I don’t know about the hiding three… Some Orcs escaped, and wolves as well, I fear. They will probably come back after nightfall. I’m hiding you, m’lord, so the others could go on. Lossë would never agree to leaving us behind in such a state… but as it happens, you are a beacon for our enemies, and so am I.”

“You… you did well,” Tyelcano forced the air out of his lungs. “Senge… forgive me.”

“Nonsense,” the younger Elf declared. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was. I got… carried away. I lost my balance… because of that blasted crow… do you know that I _despise_ crows?”

“So much?” There was a waver of gallows humour in Senge’s voice.

“So much. I’ve had dreams about them… for a while. And I think they are becoming true now. I have dreamed about being here. Every instant…”

“Well…” Senge furrowed his brows and looked around. “In that case, we should probably follow your dreams, m’lord. What happens _now?”_

“You’re dragging me,” Tyelcano said. “Along and along and along. Very far. At one point, my leg will hurt very much. I will also… well, I won’t be able to stomach it. And… there would be crows. Around. Watching me.”

“Your dreams have deceived you, Counsellor.” Senge turned to face him, and Tyelcano could have wept at the sight of his rueful smile. “We shall not make it _very far.”_

Tyelcano heard a wolf’s call in the distance, shrill and demanding. More voices answered the call, from closer, much closer.

“Senge,” he tried, “I’m heavily bleeding.”

“A perceptive lord. But Voro has told you that before.”

“I’m _attracting_ them. You should…”

“No,” came the answer from between gritted teeth. “And if you won’t stop saying that, m’lord, I will punch your bad leg so hard that you won’t wake for _days_.”

“Then drag me a little faster, will you not? I deeply despise the thought of you dying on me.”

“I’m trying,” the scout growled, visibly steeling himself against the sudden swaying of his steps.

“Senge…? What’s wrong?”

“Blood loss,” came the answer, somewhat too quickly. “It matters not. Can I trust your lordship to watch out for the wolves?”

“If you insist,” said Tyelcano, and they spoke no more for what seemed like centuries. The unworldly howls intoned from closer and closer, and Tyelcano could see a great circle of predators with his mind’s eye, as it narrowed and narrowed around them, in all directions of the compass. Soon came the crows, as he knew they would, watching him with hungry eyes, waiting for his last breath so they could have their feast.

And then, the very earth began to weep.

“They are upon us,” Tyelcano said what his companion already knew; but Senge picked up some speed with his last strength, dragging him into the looming shade of a close-by cliff. They have been following the banks of the dried river all along, and the shallow ravine had led them to a wall of rock that stood flawless, smooth, and impenetrable.

“All this fatigue, and a dead end awaits,” Senge murmured. “Wonderful.”

“There is a passage,” Tyelcano pointed at a blurred black patch at the edge of his vision. Senge charged at the entrance – if that was indeed an entrance -, and Tyelcano’s bad leg was carelessly dragged over a ledge of unforgiving rock. He could have wept, but he swallowed his cries of pain and let go of his conscience.

He must have immediately slipped back to one of his curious dreams; for it seemed to him that they arrived in a tight channel of chiselled walls; and he thought he saw a giant gate at the end. It stood under an austere arc boarded by pillars, with a wooden portcullis of bright torches and many squinting windows on top of it.

And before deep, uneasy swoon could claim him entirely, Tyelcano also thought he heard the call of a rigorous voice,

“Stand! Stir not! Or you will die, be you foes or friends.* The Gates are closed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> * Elemmakil’s words are quoted from ‘Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin’.  
> Name meanings:  
> Senge [Quenya]: adj.: keen of sight, observant, sagacious  
> Vorondo [Quenya]: comes from ‘Voronda’ ~ adjective. steadfast in allegiance, in keeping oath or promise, faithful, steadfast in allegiance/in keeping oath or promise / very similar to Voronwë’s name meaning, ‘faithfulness / steadfastness’ /.  
> Ohtar [Quenya]: means ‘war’, with a masculine ending; could be translated as simply ‘warrior’.  
> On Gildor and Lindír: I have my reasons to feature the (almost) entire collection of Rivendell Elves in such an early era. I need their backstories to be founded… I hope you will like my take on them.


	23. Law Is Law

_“We’re like two dogs in battle on their own;_   
_They fought all day but neither got the bone,_   
_There came a kite above them, nothing loth,_   
_And while they fought he took it from them both.”_

_Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘The Knight's Tale’_

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

**XXIII. Law Is Law**

_Dragged._ He had been dragged through some moist, hollow tunnel; his shoulders had repeatedly grazed along coarse walls, and there was blood, and anger, and itching pain.

 _Captured._ He had been captured, then carried along long-forsaken paths like a sack of corns, to use Lord Nelyo’s favourite figure of speech. _What a disgrace to die like this,_ he remembered thinking, _to be put out like some smouldering little flame, drowned in the ashes of its own ambition!_

Senge had been there, too; and there had been whispering, then arguing, then shouting, and spectacular swearwords and a scandalised _“do you have any idea who this Elf is…?!”_. Then other words were spoken, hushed and urgent; and later, a hot, burning liquid washed down Tyelcano’s throat, and he saw no more.

 _Such a vivid dream._ However, if he were to believe his visions, he was now held in captivity – which raised the question why would he, _a prisoner_ , be tucked safely and diligently under the finest feather bedding he’d ever felt against his skin.

Counsellor Tyelcano opened his eyes, propped himself up on elbows and glanced around. Thick, heavy curtains of velvet encircled him as he lay; delicate patterns danced across them, flickering playfully in the half-light. _(Were they stars…? or shells… or tiny eagles…?)_

As he looked further, Tyelcano also understood that the curtains were not attached to the frames of his bed but were hung from a wide round-arch that shielded him from three sides. The entrance of the berth was bevelled, so as to shield its occupant from curious eyes; and the round-arc itself was a masterpiece, laced with thin leaf-patterns and stills of a depicted hunt.

Somewhere at the edge of his vision, faint, silvery hues of light filtered through giant windows of painted glass, and the giant canopy bed engulfed his shattered body like an ocean of silken pillows. And the pain, that _terrible_ _pain_ from his dreams had vanished like smoke, like light-headed promises, like the snows of yesteryear.

There was no pain, no death, and no fear. There was only peace, and solace, and that gentle silver-light, _so very different of Anor’s intrusive burning…_

_…could it be…?_

Staring at the ceiling, Tyelcano took a deep-deep breath, and let it out slowly, gently, relishing in the privilege of aghast relief.

 _Yes._ There was only one way to explain this –

_A dream._

A terrible-terrible dream without beginning or end. _Everything_ – the death of Finwë, the Oath, the Doom, the Flight, the ships, the battle under unforgiving stars, Fëanáro’s demise…

… _Nelyo_ …

He, Tyelcano son of Ettelë, Counsellor of kings and mentor of princes was back in Aman now: in magnificent Tirion itself, where he belonged. _That_ was the only possible, feasible explication. It _had_ to be true. The beauty, the luxury, the comfort, the peace, the _silence_ that surrounded him – it was non-existent in Endórë, and impossible, and entirely alien.

_Valar, how his head was swaying, and pulsating with foggy pain…!_

~ § ~

As time passed, and a feeling akin with hunger slowly settled in his stomach, Tyelcano felt his senses sharpen a little bit, and other curious details caught his attention.

There were two openings within the soothing circle of curtains, one of them on the front and one on his left. The former adjoined a dimly lit hallway with cushion-loaded armchairs that bathed in the gleam of the polished marble floor, while the latter revealed a table loaded with twenty-some different vials of medicinal potions and fifteen further boxes of dried herbs.

Tyelcano kept glancing at them, then away, then back again, puzzled, and unsure. He doubted if such a variety of medicine had ever _existed_ in the Blessed Realm. A new feeling settled in his guts: that of unease, faint, yet shrill. He stared stubbornly at the ceiling for a time, battling his weary mind, then closed his eyes to _think_.

Those who dwelt in Aman knew no illness, no weariness, no sorrow, and no fear. The Lands of the Valar were not besmirched by Moringotto’s machineries… All taint of darkness Tyelcano carried with himself came from his own memories of Endórë, and the Great Journey; cold and distant like the Stars themselves.

They had ceased to haunt him a long time ago. Why would they return _now?_ And why would he see all those horrible visions of the royal family…? Their mere concept was ridiculous and highly improbable; yet they were so vivid, so detailed, _so horribly believable…_ And there they lingered still, at the delicate frontier of memory and fiction within his mind. His _fëa_ was pulling them to the closer end, feeling the truth in them, while his logic persisted, pointing out the evident irrationalities of Fëanáro battling giant demons of fire, of Ñolofinwë fighting the Grinding Ice, of Ñelyafinwë being captured by the Enemy, of various, slightly hostile kingdoms forming in the wide, unoccupied lands over the Sea…

_…and still…_

At this point, there was a fracture in Tyelcano’s thoughts, and for once, he relished in the warm, welcoming fog that settled within his conscience. He was weary after all, _so weary_ … and Manwë, how soothing it was to be released of the burden of his pain...!

_Pain._

With an uneasy turn of thought, Tyelcano looked down on himself, only to realise that his right leg was broken – _badly_ – and it was hung from the canopy with straps of weaved linen. An alarmed look at his arms revealed dozens of tiny cuts and bruises, all cleaned, all tended to, all bandaged or sewn together where needed. And he was _clean_ , entirely clean from head to toes. Someone had even bothered to stuff his pillows with fresh-smelling herbs.

All gentle phantasms of Tirion vanished immediately from his mind, giving way to shivers of uncertainty. _Where in Moringotto’s seven hells was he…? Has he been stuck within his own dreams…?_

Then, with a slight creak, a nearby door opened beyond the curtains, and two shadows fell on the embroidered pattern of hunting dogs charging at a white stag.

“How is he?” asked a ruefully gentle, and alarmingly _familiar_ voice.

“The lord is the lucky one of the pair, Highness,” said another. “The infection affects him no longer. I have stayed with him through the night… his breathing is even, and he feels no pain; yet weeks may pass before he walks again, and not solely because of the fracture. Some of the draughts I had to use are _heavy_. Highness, with all due respect, is speaking with him truly _that_ urgent…?”

“I shall not disturb him,” said the other voice, “all I demand is to see him for a short while. And as soon as he wakes up, you _will_ tell me.”

“As you say, my King,” came the answer, and the invisible door closed with a soft _thump_.

 _Poison. Draughts. Fracture. King._ Tyelcano shut his eyes, hardly even daring to breathe.

No dream, then. So _that_ was where this strange feeling of peace, and the wild swaying of his head came from…!

_Milk of the poppy, most probably. And some light venom, too, with a purging side-effect; also, one of those potions that help raise my fever to get rid of hidden infections. Aye, that would explain everything… seven hells, did those dim-witted brats carry me all the way to Barad Eithel…?!_

Tyelcano decided he would have a word with General Gildor and his scoundrels as soon as he was strong enough to distribute some heartfelt slaps. At this point in his thinking, however, a soft current of air caressed his face, the curtains fluttered aside on his left, and someone sat on his bedside.

“There we are,” murmured the familiar voice from earlier. “You seem slightly less pale than the last time I looked, if I may mention. Then again, you have always been a fighter, haven’t you, Counsellor?” A small chuckle. “I wonder what brings you here, this far from your cold dungeons at the end of the world.”

Within a heartbeat, face and voice clicked together in Tyelcano’s mind, as terribly unlikely as their match was. He’d never reached Barad Eithel, either, that much was evident…

Questions assaulted his mind like an arrow-flight, yet all he managed to utter was a ragged whisper,

_“Turukáno…!”_

There was a sharp intake of breath.

“Nay,” Tyelcano murmured to himself, “impossible. You have vanished from the face of the earth. No one has heard from you for _centuries.”_

“Yet you have found me,” answered the voice gently. “You have been carried past my Gates and accepted in my House. You are safe now.”

 _“Safe,”_ Tyelcano echoed, savouring the word. He gathered his strength and opened his eyes – and there he was, settled comfortably on his bedside; slender-faced, starry-eyed Turukáno, son of Ñolofinwë and brother to Findekáno. There he sat, exactly as how Tyelcano remembered him – long nose, thin lips, dark hair weaved into mazy patterns, brows knitted in deep thought, as if in eternal worry over some ineluctable doom. Yet he could not recall all the lines that furrowed the austere face, or the crown that graced the tall forehead, wrought of fibres of the cleanest silver, gemmed with diamonds, opals, and glowing sapphires. These details were new to him and mysteriously meaningful; and he took notice of them, one by one, and they stayed with him for a long time afterwards. He remained silent for long moments and watched that strange outer light paint its meandering shapes upon Turukáno’s face.

“It is good to see you, child, after so many dark and perilous years,” he finally offered. “Although, if my eyes do not betray me, I should rather call you _Highness_ now.”

Turukáno lifted the circlet from his brows, placed it neatly upon the nightstand, and gifted him with a smile.

“Please, do not let that trouble you.” Without the silvery gleam of the crown, his eyes seemed grave and hollow, like bottomless wells. “I presume we both have questions to each other.”

There was something in his tone that made Tyelcano tense, and _extremely aware_ of the fact that he was no longer speaking to the pouting little boy he used to ride on his knees, as he’d done with most of the House of Finwë. All he did, however, was mirror the smile, and rearrange his limbs into a more comfortable position.

“The first thing I have for you is an expression of my thanks,” he said. “You – your people saved me from death. Or worse.” Tyelcano gave the matter a thought. “Aye, definitely worse. Yet I was not alone… what happened to my companion, Senge? Is he safe as well?”

Turukáno closed his eyes for a moment. “I am sorry, Lord Tyelco… he has answered the Call of Námo this morning. My healers tell me that he died of a poisoned wound that ran too deep in his stomach. I am afraid he carried you through my Gates with his last strength; for he would not let go of you, not even when my guards came to your rescue.”

“Wondrously stupid,” Tyelcano closed his eyes, bowed his head. “That is how I shall remember him.”

His voice was thick with sorrow and regret, yet his mind was clear, and it felt as if, somehow, he had always _known_.

“Senge of Himring shall rest in peace while this kingdom stands,” said Turukáno. “I will see to that.”

“There are others…” Tyelcano whispered. “Five other corpses. Somewhere out there. Three of Findekáno’s and two of our own. Friends. We could not… there was no time…”

“I understand.” Turukáno placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Is there anyone else… anyone _alive_ … perhaps following your tracks?”

There was it again, that strange waver of tone, that impalpable pression…

Tyelcano shook his head. “None of us followed. Those still alive – _if_ alive – are headed west. To the High King. We were… carrying a message.”

“I have guessed that much.” Turukáno crossed his legs and glanced at him with great interest. “But why _you?_ Why would Nelyo send his most trusted advisor on a mission that an ordinary _messenger_ could complete, if he had no other purpose with it?”

Tyelcano took a deep breath, hiding his sudden wariness beneath a well-rehearsed pretence of exhilaration.

“My Lord is a sober and demure Elf,” he said, and his voice swelled with gentle, rueful amusement, “…except that sometimes, he is not. The message I am carrying is of strictly personal nature, and Lord Nelyo was reluctant to share it with anyone else than myself. It was either him or me to carry it West, and the day I let my liege expose himself to unnecessary danger shall be the day when Moringotto hands us the Holy Jewels on a diamond plate and apologizes for the inconvenience.”

Turukáno’s laughter was lighter than the jingle of tiny bells as the spring breeze makes them dance. “Of course,” he said, and the same merriment seemed to have found its way into his eyes. “Now, is there any part of your endeavour that you are ready to share with me?”

Tyelcano considered that for a moment. “I have news that may prove of interest to you,” he said carefully. “And I shall tell you about them; but I have a question for you, _King_ Turukáno, that has been gnawing on my mind ever since I am awake, and I cannot find the answer: _where am I?_ What is this strange and wonderful place…?”

“I thought you would never ask,” said Turukáno, his smile all the wider. He stood, and pulled back the curtains with one fluid motion, draping the whole room in colourful hues of unearthly radiance. Wonder-stricken, Tyelcano set up in his bed, ignoring the firm protests of his broken leg, and _looked_.

Through the semicircle of crystal-clear windows, he saw a great white city with jewel-wrought façades and colourful rooftops; narrow streets paved with the noblest marble, statues and fountains rimmed with clusters of gold; giant windows painted in the colours of the rainbow; thin towers with gargoyles and sparkling tops that seemed too thin and too high to even exist; statues of kings and knights and dragons, their eyes wrought with gleaming jewels of all colours; an abundance of gardens, singing birds and strange flowers; and all that emerging from a sea of rich, green mountain-grass. Sharp, icy peaks loomed upon the horizon as far as the eye could see, and Eagles chased each other through their steep, deadly clefts, chasms, and abysses. Anor had already passed his peak, and hid behind the closest mountain, sending orange and golden rays of light through blankets of eternal snow.

Such was the Hidden City when Tyelcano saw it first; and words stuck in his mouth and his breath in his throat, for he was reminded of Tirion over the sea, and the Mountain of Túna as it bathed in the light of Valinórë, and his eyes sting.

“This,” said Turukáno, not without pride, “is the Sealed Kingdom of Ondolindë, the last safe haven of the Quendi, be they of any blood or affiliation; home to me and to all who chose or accepted me as their King.” He removed the curtains from the other side of the bed as well, revealing an airy, luxurious parlour with squashy rugs, wide armchairs that were work of art themselves, and two gigantesque (and stuffed) bookshelves that both grazed the ceiling. “…and this is your new suite. I hope your accommodations are to your liking.”

“Woefully short is the time I shall have to enjoy them,” said Tyelcano, struggling to find his voice. “They… _exceed my expectations,_ to say the very least. Aye…” He glanced wistfully at the closest of the four great armchairs, picturing himself as its occupant, holding a large goblet of mulled wine, admiring the breath-taking view over a book on map-making, or astronomy… “I believe I could get used to this.”

“I am sure you will,” said Turukáno, still with that smile, so strange, so unlike the way Tyelcano remembered him. He swallowed.

“When may I walk again?” He asked, trying in vain to hide the restlessness in his voice. “I thought to grant myself two weeks of rest, if you would be so kind to have me; then I shall be on my way, swiftly and quietly, careful not to draw any eyes on my journey. I hope your guards shall have a map to spare.”

“I think it would be in your best interest to discuss this matter only later, when you have regained your strength,” came the answer; light, honest – and filled with warning.

Tyelcano deliberately ignored it.

“Highness,” he said, honeying his voice with respect and gratitude, “I beg you, if there is anything of importance regarding my journey West that you would share with me, please do. I need to be able to make _plans._ ”

Turukáno turned away from the view of his kingdom, and sat back on his bedside, suddenly appearing a millenia older.

“As you wish,” he sighed. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was distant, and faint.

“It had all started with the dreams,” he began, “hazy at first, then all the more detailed. They would not let me rest: they would come back, again and again, always with the same message. At first, I had mistaken them for nightmares, as they spoke of death and ruin, and of Moringotto’s servants chasing my beloved people to their deaths. Yet the message of my dreams became clear after a time, and simple: _find cover_. _Find a place where the black hands of the Enemy cannot reach you, and those you love._ Still, I hesitated, for I could not guess the origin of my visions, and I feared they would mislead me. Then, the Lord of Waters himself came to me and showed me the way. Into this valley he led me. _This is the Valley of Tumladen,_ he spoke in a deep voice and the mountains themselves rumbled with the echo of his words –, _here your kingdom shall stand for many years to come. Lead your people here, son of Ñolofinwë, and you shall be safe from all perils but the ones you carry with yourself, and your people shall call you the Wise.”_

“What could I have done…? My heart was full of His words for many years to come, and I made plans. Countless scrolls of parchments I have filled; I have designed streets and houses and halls and dungeons, gates and fountains and pavements and the very patterns of the fence that separates my balcony from my daughter’s, so lost was I in details and accuracy. And I have imagined a great many other things as well, until the whole concept was readied in my head, and Ondolindë sprang to existence in the vaults of my _fëa._ Yet I have returned to Vinyamar and wandered the seashores, deep in thought. I was still unsure, hesitant like the Teleri, wishing to depart, yet unable to do so. For I knew that the only way my kingdom would last was that of secrecy, and isolation, and the thought of leaving grieved me more than anyone could understand.”

“Then the Glorious Battle came, and our great victory with it; yet all I did was count my losses, and visit the graves of my fallen friends, one by one. They looked terribly similar in the morning light, and I remember losing count of them, not even knowing which one I was looking at. Later, a feeling of restlessness came over me, a warning from Ulmo himself, as I understood; and I knew I had to do what was best for my people. I had to leave Vinyamar behind while it was still green and peaceful, with seagulls cracking mussels on the edge of my window-sill. Thus, the constructions began, and on they went for dozens of years; in swiftness and secrecy my people have laboured, and I with them. With Ulmo’s mighty help, we moved here, leaving no one behind; and when the last ones arrived, the six Gates of my City were sealed, and watchful guardians were placed upon them, so no one may enter or leave. This was the first and utmost rule I had based my Kingdom on: that of secrecy.”

“See, Counsellor, those who have chosen to follow me all accepted to _stay_ at the safe haven once they reached it. For the Marrer is stronger than us all, and he knows the ways of our hearts; and no loyalty, no valorous stance can help us guard the secrets of our _fëa_ if he captures us. My people – and I – are not willing to take that risk. The safest way would be, of course, to lock our Gates once and for all, letting no one in and no one out; yet we, in this City, are unable to shut our hearts completely from our people. Those who, by fate or by chance, _do_ find the Gates of Ondolindë, and prove to be of good and honest intention, are let inside, and taken care of. I give homes to them, very often in my own house, and do my best to help them start a new life in my kingdom. There is only one, utmost rule they must all respect: once they entered, _they cannot leave_ while the Iron Prison stands in the North, and the Doom of the Ñoldor is at work.”

Tyelcano took three deep breaths, ignoring the horrible, gripping dread that spread across his chest.

“I presume,” he said, voice calm as a frozen lake, “that said interdict is not extended to, forgive my immodesty, but _envoys of high stance from the upmost quarters of the household of the Star_.”

“I am afraid it does,” said Turukáno, his voice low, regretful, but harder than stone. “Your companion has carried you all the way here. You have found the Orfalch Echor, and with that, a scholar as well-versed with maps as yourself shall find the exact location of this City in no time. I cannot risk that knowledge somehow – anyhow – reaching the Enemy. I know you would never betray me by free will; but who knows what Moringotto is capable of…? Only once before had I let guests leave my City – for three days and three nights my Council debated the issue, and the only reason I decided in the guests’ favour was that the Eagles had carried them through the mountain-lands. They would never find us again on their own, not even if Moringotto were to break their will and read their minds; but the same is not true in your case, Counsellor. You are _family,_ and rescued from a deadly peril that will come after you if you continue seeking it. And, first and foremost, _you know where you are_. I am sorry, from the bottom of my heart, but I cannot let you leave; at least not _now,_ with the Enemy’s forces scattered in Beleriand and with deadly threats looming above the heads of the Ñoldor.”

“Lord Nelyo needs me,” said Tyelcano slowly, balefully. _“I have to go.”_

“This matter is not up to discussion,” Turukáno snapped, and in that moment, he seemed stern and adamant like Finwë himself. “You shall leave when the time comes for you to leave – if you still wish for it.”

Tyelcano counted thirteen breaths until he trusted himself enough to answer. “Do not think that I scorn your hospitality, Highness, or that I am without gratitude,” he said. “It is only that I am sworn…”

“…to the House of Finwë.” Turukáno’s eyes were two gleaming gems in the light of sunset. “And you tend to forget that Finwë had three sons, and his sons had sons, who have always been more eager to hear your counsel than Fëanáro, or any of his kin.”

Tyelcano let himself sink into the welcoming embrace of his pillows and let out a sigh equal to a small tempest.

“You should have let the Enemy capture me,” he declared. “Being burned with hot iron, reshaped into an Orc or threatened with the Eternal Darkness are nothing to the sheer torment of your good old family feud.”

“Then the torment shall cease until you get better,” said Turukáno gently, and he tucked the blankets tighter around him. “Do not let the shadows of this marred world trouble you!”

“The shadows are within, and I, myself, feel marred,” Tyelcano sighed. Then, deciding to push his luck a little further, he added, “Turukáno… will you do something for me?”

“Anything except one.”

_Of course._

“You have always been friends with the Eagles,” Tyelcano tried. “Can you at least… with or without their help… _assure_ that my friends reach Barad Eithel safely?”

“I may.”

 “And will you come to see me again in my exile?”

“Exile is something we all share.” Lithely, Turukáno stood, and stepped outside the circle of curtains. “Worry not! You have not seen the last of me, or my household. Now, rest, and regain your strength. I shall send a healer to have a look at you. Feel free to ask for any book your mind can convey – my library has it.”

With that, he was gone; and unearthly silence settled in the room once again.

Tyelcano propped his head up with five silk pillows and crossed his arms, wincing inwardly at the painful tension the movement caused. He would need time to heal indeed; and assistance, and care. And he would have all that.

All his commands would be carried out, all his requests heard and honoured, all his wishes granted. Save one.

He _was_ a prisoner, after all.

And as he lay in the cocooning warmth of his bed, indignant, grief-stricken, a sudden image flashed before his mind’s eye, from his home in the Blessed Realm across the Sea, unfathomably far, far over the waves of Ulmo. From Formenos, where, in an empty room, there probably still was a marvellous diamond cage – courtesy of Fëanáro –, and within, a small bird, wrought of silver and gold with eyes of topaz and wings red as rubies. If one turned the key below its maw twelve times, it would sing.

And so would he.

~ § ~§ ~ § ~

**_Dimbar, North-West of the Brithiach, FA 467, the first day of Nárië_ **

Antalossë had seen – and built – funeral pyres before.

Antalossë had seen innumerable horrors before, his life being one endless sequence of consecutive disasters.

Antalossë had lost _friends_ before, and he had wept bitter tears for them.

Antalossë knew what peril was, and death scared him no longer.         

_Why were his legs shaking so much, then?_

The corpses looked ordinary; three sleeping, two at the verge of awakening with their eyes half open.

The flames crackled their tempestuous song as they ate flesh and bared bones like a pack of crimson hounds.

_Seven hells, why were his legs shaking…?_

Antalossë had hoped that this latest disaster would elude him, but that desire did not douse in him the awareness that it _could_ happen. Nor was he surprised that it _did,_ after all. Perils had a habit to find him wherever he went; and if he tried to run, their pursuit was only the hotter.

Trouble found him, as it always did, as it always would. There was nothing special about the occasion, save perhaps for the detail that _this_ newest disaster would have been easier to endure if he had two more corpses to burn.

There they were, slowly becoming a heap of ash and blackened bones: five empty shells, five limp likenesses of brave soldiers. He knew them by their names and called them friends. When he first came upon them, his stomach had curled into a tight knot, dreading the moment when he would turn over a corpse, and recognise Counsellor Tyelcano, or Senge, or Vorondo. And Vorondo, he found; but not the other two.

He counted the dead again and again, over and over, caressed their faces, closed their eyes, clenched their palms around the hilts of their swords and whispered blessings into their ears as he helped Lindír lift them onto their pyres; yet there would always be two missing.

Later, he found the tracks: the crystal-clear path carved by a body that had been dragged along the airy plains, trails of blood and nails digging into the ground to fight the pains of a broken leg; and the deep, tamped footprints left by limber Orc-feet on the pursuit.

Antalossë looked at the tracks, then turned away, then looked again. Lindír was standing beside him, holding the pieces of a broken lance he was somehow reluctant to throw into the fire.

“They tried to run,” he managed. Antalossë wanted to nod, but his entire body seemed frozen to the spot.

“The whole band leapt after them. They could not have gotten very far.”

This time, Antalossë did nod. Lindír gave the fire a stir and turned away from the charred bones of their friends. The wind kept the billowing smoke away from their faces; still, their eyes stung.

Lindír took a breath. “Maybe we should…”

“There is nothing for us here.” General Gildor’s voice was sharp, and very clear in the morning air as he emerged from under the edge of the nearest slope. “I have followed the tracks while you gathered wood and fed the fire. They keep getting increasingly trampled by Orcs as they run on, then they become unreadable.”

Antalossë stirred, his heart leaping into his throat. “But… the bodies, General,” he whispered. “Where are the bodies…?”

Gildor looked him in the eye, hardly, almost challengingly… and Antalossë felt the thrill of the icy claws of dread and disgust running down his back.

“Do you mean that they were… captured?” Lindír’s hands tightened into helpless, indignant fists. _“Carried away…?_ What do you mean, General?”

“Three miles North.” Gildor’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. “I burned them.”

(to be continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> ‘Tyelcano son of Ettelë’ actually means Tyelcano son of ‘foreign lands’, in reference to his upbringing in Cuiviénen. The names of his parents are not known, and he never speaks about them, although it is rumoured that his father was one of the first Elves awakened by Eru himself.  
> Turgon’s story about the founding of Gondolin is a (stretched) retelling of the canon.  
> A piece of omniscient advice: don’t be very quick to judge Gildor…!


	24. Closure (Author's Note)

_**Author's Notice on the 24th of May 2018** _

_Dear Readers,_

_For the sake of the continuity of this story, as well as for the sake of preserving its quality, I have decided to suspend updates until September._

_What I will do in the meantime is tie up some loose ends, clear up some concepts, and make a few difficult decisions about what should and what should not be "incarnated" into writing from my original notebook of concepts._

_What I can promise you for certain is that 'The Seven Gates' **will** continue, and it will also be finished (one day). I don't know how frequent my updates will be once the story resumes, but I would like to be able to pick up a more consistent schedule than before, with updates at least twice a month._

_Until September, you might want to stay tuned for further 'Foundations' instalments (as in: an edgy adventure featuring Luke Skywalker and Lando Calrissian), the closure of 'The Wolf and the Serpent' (as in: another edgy adventure featuring the Sons of Odin, dirtied with something like romance), and, last but not the least, a couple of weird one-shots which have absolutely nothing to do with any piece of writing I have ever uploaded here. (IF I will upload them)._

_Happy exam period to everyone concerned!_

_Take care,_

_L_

_P. S.: Heartfelt THANK YOU for everyone who commented, liked, followed, reviewed, criticised, shared (etc.) this story. You guys rock. I hope I won't disappoint you with the rest!_


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